The Very Devil of the Stars- Rogue Trader Adventures
by Ro Kyle Carlyle
Summary: Follow the very first adventure of the legendary Jakobian "Bloody Jak" Velasquez, scoundrel and hero in a time of monsters, demons, pirates, and of course war. At the edges of space, under a brutal, theocratic Empire, in a galaxy plunged into perpetual war, Jak can always be relied on to pursue his own vision of freedom, destiny and enormous wealth. Learn where his story began.
1. Prologue

Prologue

"We are offered a universe of depraved insanity or cold obliteration. The Warp or the Void. It is a cruel choice, an impossible choice. But, perhaps, between the warp and the void there is a thin line in which the mind may survive without succumbing to madness." – Navigator Sirenna E'Al'Xandros _Musings of a Celestial Navigator_ (text considered heretical and forbidden in the Imperium, available only in the Koronus Expanse)

In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only…

paperwork.

Miles and miles of paperwork, extending into the darkness as far the eye could see. Although by the gloomy light of the lumen by which the scribes worked, that was not very far. Many retired from their jobs near blind from the daily toil of scratching out orders, requests, requisitions, memorandums, declarations, records, receipts and, of course, the ever-important logs of every piece of paperwork that crossed their desks.

Scribe Borrus looked with despair at the pile of ancient parchment in front of him. It was his and his alone, the good work of the galaxy going undone. Far more important than any battle, he knew, was the proper ordering and sorting of the legions of paperwork created by the countless -no not countless, it was his job to count them- wars of the Great Imperium of Man.

But Borrus had stared all day, all week even, at the latest, moldering pile and had read nothing, had written nothing. It was too huge, too old, too daunting. Even the noblest Astartes, or the grimmest Inquisitor, could surely not tackle this task.

"Brother Borrus, are you coming?" Another cowled and squinting scribe stopped by his desk, smiling with the amiable ease of a man who knows his rest day is nigh. Borus always had hated Brother Sevren's easy-going nature. "We are all going to the Floating Pyres of Reflection to see if we can catch a glimpse of the sisters returning from their prayer." His eager voice and waggling eyebrows insinuated that a glimpse of the sisters returning from prayer was possibly more carnal satisfaction than any man could dream of.

"I cannot, Brother. I have been tasked with finishing this," Borus waved futilely at the unfinished pile.

"Brother," Sevren leaned in. "Surely this must be a new stack? Stack 461Gamma5Delta88Swordfish was due to be completed two days past. If this be a new stack then you can surely leave it until after the rest day."

And if it is the old one, I will be scoured, Borus knew. After the rest day he would be scoured for his failure. His compatriot read the expression on his face.

"Don't despair brother. Perhaps the ordinates will be lenient with you." Sevren realised how foolish he sounded and rallied with, "Perhaps during the rest day you can sneak in and get some work done?"

"But how?" Borus wailed, and immediately clapped his hands over his mouth. The cry had echoed in the cavernous halls of the Administratum vault. Other scribes had looked up, and some were coming over now. "Ordinates Teevil only found this stack in the ancient vaults last rest day and he has given me this task because he knows I will fail it!" Borrus explained frantically to Sevren. "Stack 461Gamma5Delta88Swordfish has some paperwork nearly 2000 years old in it. Some of these forms were thought lost forever. Just look at them!" His dendri-quills, branching out from over both of his shoulders, flapped helplessly in the direction of the pile of ancient paperwork.

Undeterred, his fellow scribe took two sheets from the top of the stack and passed one to Borus. "It is just a matter of finding the right place to start," Sevren assured him. Borrus looked at the paper. It was yellow with age and it crinkled in his hands like fragility itself, but the words could still be made out on it. Other scribes were joining them now.

"Oh this isn't so bad." He said. "The Navy needs this Papyrus 7B filled out before they can decommission a carrier ship."

"Well this one is a little more complicated," Sevren said. "It's a requisition form to certify the collection of Imperial tithes from a mining world that has not been keeping up to date with its taxes… it is dated two hundred years ago." Other scribes had begun picking up sheaves and were looking through them.

"These ones all refer to a system in the Segmentum Obscurus with habitable worlds for colonisation." Said one "The first of three expected colonies was finished over a thousand years ago. They are waiting on the paperwork to launch the next colony fleets."

"Those systems could be next door neighbours!" Sevren observed, with growing excitement. "I'm sure one fleet could be dispatched to collect the tithe and deliver the colonists. How much can have changed in one thousand years?"

"This is a request for the removal of undesirables from an overpopulated Hive World," called out one scribe, his bio-monocle whirring busily as he scanned the page. "Perfect for building a colony fleet".

"I've got a memorandum regarding the need for a diocese to be found immediately for a newly made Archdeacon." Said another.

"Do you think one hundred years counts as immediate?" Borrus asked, glancing at the age of the memorandum. His fellow scribes smiled thinly and nodded.

"Oh most definitely. You know, brother, maybe this isn't so bad after all," said Sevren, stroking his chin with gnarled, ink-stained fingers. "A little creative bureaucracy and we can have Stack 461g5Delta88Swordfish completed by sun-down. It is simply a matter of filing out the forms so that they all satisfy each other."

"Yes. Yes, I see it now Brother," Borus said, glimpsing the light glowing at the end of a long dark tunnel. "Put the Hive-worlders onto a colony fleet together, provide the paperwork for a decommissioned vessel to be auctioned as escort, collect the tithes on the way. I think we can do this."

Two thousand years of paperwork, completed in one night. Borus would be a legend amongst his fellow scribes, his deeds told of for millennia to come. The group of them clustered around the ancient stack with renewed vigour and purpose. The chance to glimpse the sisters returning from their prayers was all but forgotten.

The galaxy can be a cold, unforgiving place. But with valiant companions around you, anything can be achieved.


	2. Part 1- Chapter 1

**Part 1: The Starveling System**

 **Chapter 1**

A lurch, as if your stomach has decided to hurl itself out of your body through your bowels, a faint flicker of pain just behind the eyes, as if you've been staring at the sun, and then finally a breath-halting sensation of being washed clean by being dunked head first in an ice bath.

The fleet drops out of the warp.

There is a moment's pause in the Armsmen's Mess, the anticipation that always came with this moment, and then the Hosanna's of the All Clear sing out across the vox-systems and all present relax. You can feel the tension leaving the room. The chatter that preceded the escape from the Immaterium restarts, just a hint louder and more boisterous than before.

Seven ships travel together, a small colony fleet, mostly transports. Their Flagship is the _Yolenna Symphony_ , an Enforcer class light carrier cruiser, bearing the Imperial Aquila but with markings of a privateer along her side.

Tens of thousands of souls aboard her, but for now let us consider just four, gathered in the Armsmen's Mess. A stranger collection of friends might not be found anywhere else aboard the Symphon _y._ They are laughing and drinking together easily, despite the discomforting journey the ship has just emerged Armsmen's Mess is one of the few cheerful places aboard a ship during warp travel, and made more so by the presence of grog and sailor's stories.

Observe the first, our hero, Jak Velasquez, son of Lord-Admiral Oberon Velazquez, the Imperial hero, retired naval officer, Lord-Captain of the _Yolenna Symphony_ and commander of the colony fleet. Physically, the young Velasquez stands out. Taller than most, with thickset arms and an arrogant sweep to his broad shoulders as he sprawls at ease. He is surely nowhere near as comfortable as he appears, given that he sits at the small rounded, plasmetal chairs that mould to the table, designed (like everything else on board the ship), to withstand the rigours of battle rather than to provide comfort.

He has a dark complexion that years of the travelling the void have paled to a burnished brown. His long dark hair curls lazily, like waves on a faraway paradise world, but his beard is close cropped and neatly trimmed; this is a man who has embraced the freedom of leaving the navy without having lost too much of its discipline.

His heavy brow, thickset jaw and broken nose might give the impression of a bruiser, if not offset by his sharp brown eyes, a crooked grin and a high, booming laugh. It is the kind of laugh that invites everyone around to lean closer and join in, and at this point in time is directed at a long and rambling joke his friend is telling about a supposed run-in on some distant battlefield with a member of the Adepta Sororitas.

On the left of Jak is his mentor and senior officer, the ship's Master-at-Arms, Garian Sykarin. An angular man, wrung thin by age and bloody experience, with one mechanical eye shining out from the ragged mess of burn scars that cover the right side of his face. He holds himself in close, hands clasped together at the table, slightly tense, as if always waiting for the next enemy. When he laughs his mouth is dragged into a grim approximation of a smile by those few facial muscles that still work.

To Jak's right is a fellow sergeant-at-arms, a great slab of a man named Borjean: fat and hearty, with moustaches like a walrus. These neatly groomed moustaches, along with the slicked-back care given to his pale white hair denote a vanity that might be appropriate on a much younger man, but certainly not one whose face is split by the red lines of too much heavy drinking, whose belly strains against the buttons of his vest, and whose hands fumble at, and knock over, his mug as he tells his dirty and likely apocryphal story about his run in with the Sisters of Battle. He wears the faded great overcoat of an ex-officer of the Imperial Guard; many of the armsmen aboard the Yolenna Symphony have been Imperial Guardsman once. This helps to reduce fraternising with the common sailors, who they may one day need to gun down if the dreaded threat of mutiny or madness should raise its head.

Finally, across from Jak sits by far the strangest of the group. Jestross, a living blasphemy, a xenos, the kind of creature that only great men or criminals can get away with counting amongst their crew, and even then only with the most exceptional dispensations. His great hunched frame, four multi-jointed upper limbs, trisected jaw and shaggy, matted fur might give the impression of a lumbering, shambolic monster, until you see one arm uncurl like a whip crack to catch Borjean's cup before it hits the ground, and realise that this monster is lightning fast. He laughs along with the others, in a staccato, clacking noise, always a second or two behind as he never truly understands their jokes; he simply appreciates the company. He is rarely allowed to fraternise, being the lowest of the low amongst the crew despite his captain's favour. However, he has proven himself in battle enough times that Jak, Garian and Borjean consider him a friend. After all the strangeness they have seen in the galaxy, the heresy of this friendship does not even cross their minds.

Such were the sort of unlikely compatriots that a man such a Jak Velasquez draws to him. A young man, great in ambition if not yet in renown. This is his story.

* * *

"And then she says to me, 'If it was any bigger they'd call _you_ the Eviscerator'!"

Borjean reached the punch line of his story with a great roar, pounding his fist on the table. The others had heard it a hundred times before, but laughed all the same. All across the mess, armsmen were laughing and sitting at ease in their small groups, relaxing now that the ship had left the Warp.

Jak was one of the few on board who took little notice of the disquieting nature of warp travel. He had been born aboard a ship much like the _Yolenna Symphony_ , and had travelled the Immaterium more times than he could count, witnessing all the horrors of Warp travel first hand. Some were scarred by these experiences, but others were made by them. For Jak, they no longer held too much terror. He knew that others, his father included, would put this down to arrogance or ignorance but he did not mind.

Jak's eyes were on a little priestess, a young acolyte of the ship's Confessor, who had been drawn to the warmth and laughter of the armsmen's mess as protection against the fears of the Warp. Despite the rough crowd, and the heresy of a xenos crewmember, she had found comfort for a time here. Now that the ship had translated into real space however, she stood up to leave.

Jak knew and liked the priestess, although her name had escaped him at this precise moment. Despite his highborn family, Jak found it easy to get along with most of the ship's crew, whether it be the cloistered and stern members of the ecclesiasty, the rough and ready voidfarers of the lower decks, the great clannish families of the guns decks, the awkward, Omnissiah-worshipping machine priests of the ship's Enginarium or the genial killers of the armsmens' quarters.

It helped that Jak had never shown any reluctance or hesitation when it came to jumping into battle, ever since his father had demoted him to a lowly armsman. Indeed, he had demonstrated a reckless daring in enough battles to suggest that he was never happiest than when the lasguns were firing and ordnance exploding all around. This made him easy to like; the armsmen respected nothing more than bravery and it demonstrated Jak's willingness to serve the ship beyond just the cursory tasks typically set for the children of an Admiral.

Leaving his friends to their stories, Jak stood and pursued the priestess as she departed. He stopped her just outside the mess, blocking the walkway with his large body.

"Priestess," he grinned. "Where are you going so quickly?" She looked at him, annoyance crossing her face.

"I am going to find my congregation," she answered primly. "My lector will be wanting me for the rituals of return."

"Will you not join us for a drink?"

She shot him an arch look "I don't like the company you keep Mr Velasquez, and I don't feel like drinking with you today."

"You're the only company I want to keep Priestess. If you don't like the mess, we could go back to my bunk."

"I think not." She went to move past him but he darted back, surprisingly nimble, blocking her way again. "I have a duty."

"And I have a destiny," he answered playfully. She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? Is Destiny the name you've given your pistol?"

Jak couldn't help but laugh. "I'm serious priestess, I'm a very important person on this ship. You might not have heard, but I'm the captain's son."

"Yes, you've only told me about a hundred times. And everyone knows the captain demoted his son to armsman, aboard a ship that has left its owner deeply in debt, and that even if there is any profit from this voyage you are sixth in the line of inheritance, and that the Letter of Marque your father possesses is not hereditary so will not pass onto to any of his family after he dies. So tell me, please, because I'm very curious, what exactly you are destined for Mr Velasquez?"

Some men would have been shocked by the withering appraisal, or angered by it. Jak simply smiled.

"The same thing we all are Priestess. The stars."

She snorted and pushed past him, hurrying away to her duties. Jak thought for a moment about pursuing her, but then he heard the noise from inside the mess, and curiosity drew him back inside.

* * *

Borjean, half-drunk despite the supposed rationing of ship's grog, was peering through unfocused eyes at a figure in the corner. It was hooded and in shadow, the shape of a crewman, but indistinct, almost blurred. Borjean blew out a breath of consternation that ruffled his great hanging moustache. His years of finely honed military senses were telling him that something was wrong with this picture. Finally, he realised what it was.

"That man," he declared, standing and pointing one suddenly steady finger, "That man doesn't have a drink!"

The declaration made every head turn. It was true, the shadowed figure had no drink in front of him, and no companions near him. Borjean was already reaching for his pistol, but Garian was the faster man to the trigger. Both stepped forward to accost the stranger in their midst, pistols raised.

The hooded shadow did not respond as any man would. Instead it seemed to ripple and lengthen, flattening out against the walls and floor. Its midsection exploded into a great, dark hole that seemed to open up the mess into very depths of the void itself. From the darkness, a dozen writing tentacles or tongues burst forth, purple, barbed and slavering.

Both pistols fired but only one shot each before they were struck from Garian and Borjean's' hands by the whip-like tentacle/tongues of the creature.

"Flotsam!" yelled the officer of the mess from behind the bar, as he hit his vox broadcaster. "Flotsam in the armsmens' mess!"

A hundred hands reached for weapons, but Jestross was the first to reach the creature. He launched himself across a long table, ducking beneath Garian's arm and came up holding long knives in each of his four clawed hands. Ichor spraying as he sliced through one tentacle off and fended the razor-bladed swipe of another.

Jak was not far behind, drawing his shock-rapier as he sprinted across the mess to do battle with the horror. He leapt instinctively atop a table as the shadow creature grew in length. The darkness slid across the floor and walls, not truly part of this world but certainly able to carve a path of destruction through it. Borjean, Garian and Jestross joined him atop the table, fending off the barbed tentacles with their swords. The xenos' arms were a blur, knives slicing and parrying desperately at the whipping tentacles. For every one that was chopped, more seemed to grow from the horror's mouth.

The size of the creature seemed to stabilise, taking up a whole corner of the mess. The shadow was taking the form of a great mouth. One armsmen, a little drunker or less prepared for the unknown, was too slow on the uptake; the shadow slid beneath him and a tentacle wrapped around his ankle, dragging him into the unholy maw.

The armsman screamed and both Jak and Borjean reached down to grab him. Jak held his arm, while Borjean grabbed him beneath the shoulders, straining until his face was red to try to pull him free of the creature's grip. Jestross fended off the creature's tentacles as Borjean and Jak pulled desperately.

Only sergeants were allowed to carry guns in the mess, and those few present were firing their small arms directly into the shadow's great maw. Unlike its tongues (or tentacles, or legs, or whatever they were) the shadow seemed to absorb all fire. Still, an unearthly wailing could be heard from deep within it.

"It feels pain!" Cried Garian. "Double fire. Grenades, Krim!"

The mess officer quickly went to his shelves, looking through bottles of exotic liquor and off-world snacks before identifying the small box named 'Boom Treats' and hurriedly opening it up.

Jak was fast losing grip on the armsman; all of the shadow creature's energies now seemed intent on dragging him in, more tentacles wrapping around his legs and waist.

"Don't let go of me," the young man begged, as a surge of the creature's strength nearly jerked him free and Borjean grunted with the strain of holding on.

"We won't," Jak promised but he could already sense his strength waning. Whatever this monstrous force was, that had travelled with them from the Immaterium, it was draining his energy and his will. Borjean looked to Garian and shook his head, as the armsman slipped a little further out of their grip.

The mess officer threw a bandolier, slung with high-energy thermal grenades, to Garian. At the same time, the horror gave a great shriek, trying to close its barely-real shadow-mandibles around its prey. Jak felt his grip slacken, greasy with sweat, the young armsman's hand slipping through his. His lower body was starting to disappear into the shadow, drawn into the foul dimension that the shadow-creature was acting as a conduit for.

"Please," the armsman pleaded, his legs disappearing into the horror's mouth up to the knees. Garian knelt down, quickly looping the bandolier over the armsman's head and shoulder, and swiftly set all twenty grenades to a three second charge.

"Die well, sailor", Garian said quietly, as both Jak and Borjean let go at the same time. The creature's nails-on-the-chalkboard-of-the-soul shriek of triumph mixed with the plaintive wail of its victim as its shadow-jaws clamped shut. The fire from the assembled armsmen paused. The entire room seemed to hold it's breath as the strange and ancient evil digested its meal of innocent human and a thousand tons of explosives.

They heard the grenades go off, but as Garian had calculated from the absorption of the small arms fire, the blast did not extend through to the ship. Whatever the creature was, it was not truly of this world, but existed as a shadow of the hellish dimension that all ships must pass through to travel long interstellar voyages. Its gullet had swallowed the grenades back to this dimension to destroy the creature's true form.

There were always the chances of a few stowaways when a ship passed through the Warp, creatures of destruction and madness. A good crew was always prepared to fight for their lives, even in the mess.

With a rending scream the shadow folded in on itself, disappearing with a wet sucking noise, its tentacles falling to the scorched floor and twitching uselessly. Slowly, everyone exhaled.

Garian, the senior officer, was the first to interrupt the silence. "Right. Borjean, you old drunk, secure the site and call up the exorcists. Jak, you and I have got a meeting of the ward room to attend." He raised his voice to address the still quiet room. "The rest of you, play time is over! We're out of hell and back to work. Get to your watches or get to sleep, we don't rest until Starveling."


	3. Part 1- Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The little colony fleet was eighteen months into its voyage, an odyssey demanded by unseen masters in far-off Holy Terra and initiated by slightly less remote masters in the Calixis Sector. Starveling was just one stopover amongst many that had been demanded of the fleet before their journey's end, where the colonists would be delivered to fend for themselves and survive or fail on planets that had been marked for settlement over a thousand years ago.

The fleet was made up of the _Yolenna Symphony,_ a light carrier cruiser, and her two escorts, the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Portentia,_ guarding four transport ships carrying half a million colonists between them. Travelling far beyond the well-regulated borders and stable warp-routes of Calixis, it was the longest journey that many amongst the fleet had ever taken, even those who had served most of their lives aboard mighty void-ships.

It did not, however, match up to some of the great void odysseys from the Imperium's history. The rogue trader fleets of the greatest dynasties would sometimes make voyages that lasted decades, charting unknown regions of space, establishing new trade routes and searching for the hidden, horrible mysteries of the galaxy. Jak could imagine nothing more glorious.

The goals of this voyage were far more prosaic. His father had been tasked with glorified baby-sitting duties, in return for a ship and a Letter of Marque that gave him the rights of a privateer. The Letter of Marque had established his father as a private fleet owner and chartist, independent of the Imperial Navy but under strict conditions and only across the routes laid out by the Admiralty. Within these confines he was free to trust his own judgement, but only until the colonists were safely settled, at which point the Letter carried strict instructions to return and receive further orders from the Admiralty of the Calixis Sector. The voyage was a military mission in all but name.

Admiral Oberon Velasquez was a hero of the Grand Imperial Navy, a man of consummate skill both as a void captain and as a commander of fleets. Descended from Calixian aristocracy, his pedigree was immaculate and his reputation bordered on legendary. However, in the prime of his life his career had been stalled by the forces of petty jealousies, politics and the wayward behaviour of his headstrong brood of seven children- some more wayward and headstrong than others.

Shipped off unceremoniously as a Solar Admiral to a system that barely required a fleet and kept him stranded planet-side, Oberon had made his case perhaps too strongly and annoyed the High Admirals who held his fate in their hands. When one of his children had been caught up in scandal the High Admirals decided to make an example of the restless hero. An offer was made to him, one that could not honourably be refused, and so to avoid disgrace and ruin, Oberon had accepted the Letter of Marque, a ship of his own, and a mission that would send him far from civilization. He would be a reminder to all the Masters and Commanders of Battlefleet Calixis not to get too big for their boots.

Perhaps to the High Admirals' surprise, Oberon had accepted the Letter of Marque with great pride and dignity, and a large portion of his officers had requested discharges in order to transfer to his new vessel, which he renamed the _Yolenna Symphony_. He had placed everything on the line, all but bankrupting the family to purchase two escorts for the Symphony, a destroyer and a frigate. It was a substantial gamble; if the voyage was not a profitable one then the outrageous cost of operating not one but three military class void-ships would destroy the Velasquez family's fortune.

Amongst the orders listed in the Letter of Marque, Oberon had been instructed to visit the planet of Starveling, a mining world that had not received contact from the Empire in over two centuries, and made little effort to pay its taxes in that time. The planet had been all but forgotten due to a bureaucratic blunder, but sooner or later every unpaid debt was remembered and every planet was reminded of its oaths to the God-Emperor of Mankind, usually at gunpoint.

Under the conditions of the Letter of Marque, Oberon would receive a substantial portion of the tithe from Starveling. A successful collection would go a long way towards determining the future of both the Admiral and his children.

* * *

The conference room off the bridge was full when Jak arrived, receiving no greeting beyond a raised eyebrow from his father. The full ward room was not present -Admiral Velasquez had structured his privateering crews along naval lines, where even a small void-ships might carry many thousands of petty officers- but the room could barely contain all the Yolenna's senior officers: the Masters, Chiefs, Keepers and Tech-Magi who were responsible for keeping the ship operating smoothly. Jak was the only junior officer present; despite his low rank his father still expected him to attend and observe the duties of a Lord-Captain.

The other captains of the fleet, including Jak's eldest brother who had the _Siren's Wail_ , were represented on ten-foot tall vid-screens arrayed around the perimeter of the circular conference room. The colonists were represented by their leader, in all matters spiritual and temporal, the Arch-Deacon Torsmond Benetor. The Archdeacon, a doughy, discontented scowl of a man, had apparently been waiting to be presented with a diocese for over a century. He had grown splenetic in the waiting. When the colonists were finally deposited, Benetor would remain with them, the whole untamed sub-sector his diocese. Whilst a Cardinal would represent the region on Holy-Terra itself, they would never travel the distance to see their flock, and the Archdeacon would be the true ecclesiastical power in this part of space.

The Archdeacon had presumptuously sat himself to the right hand side of the Admiral. On the Admiral's left hand side was his First Officer, Ravenna Al Dessi, who had transferred with him from his naval flagship, putting her own career on hold in a gesture of great respect for the old man. The other officers were arrayed in a semi-circle that fanned out from the Admiral, at a circular table that featured a hollow centre, where hololithic displays of the ship and the Starveling star system were bordered by streams of sensor-array data.

There was the bass rumble of sailors (who by nature were used to yelling over the sounds of the ship) trying to keep their voices down, as the officers commented on the drop from the Warp and the state of the ship, but all of that stopped as soon as the Admiral spoke his first words.

"Gentleman, we have made the trip through the Warp unscathed." A polite applause at that, and then quickly back to business. Unscathed could mean anything from dozens of casualties to whole sections of the fleet driven to temporary madness. No fleet escaped the Warp truly unscathed, and in this case, the word simply meant that the voyage could continue without interruption.

"We turn our attention now to the task entrusted to us by our good Masters in Calixis: the tribute of Starveling." The planet, sharing its name with the system, appeared in three-dimensional form, floating above one of the conference table projectors. "This planet has proven recalcitrant in regards to its presentation of tithes, and our duty is simply to remind the Governor of this fact, and collect what it is owed. Even here on the edges of civilization our debts are clear."

"Worthy sentiments, no doubt." This came from the Archdeacon. "I would only add that this task is secondary to our ultimate holy endeavour, the safe delivery of the blessed colonists, and as such I would not recommend a great expenditure of time or resources. Although, this is completely at your discretion, of course." He smiled obsequiously.

"Thank you for your contribution, Archdeacon Benetor" The Admiral said, dryly. Jak saw glances between those assembled. The majority were ex-navy and in their world no one spoke before the ship's Lord-Captain invited input. This special envoy of the ecclesiasty clearly saw himself as equal to the fleet's commander, a situation that could provide some amusing fireworks before the voyage was out.

"I do not intend to stay long in this system," the Admiral continued. "However, we have been authorised to gather such tithes as are appropriate to fund this voyage and remind the planetary authorities of their past dereliction.

Our initial astropathic contact with the planet's governor has indicated that he is an incautious and obstreperous individual, with a heightened sense of his meagre planetary defences. He believes that it is not necessary for his people to pay tribute to their Emperor. He believes that Starveling is perfectly capable of defending itself against the ceaseless tides of heresy and xenos aggressors. It is in the interest of his people to see that this is not the case."

There was a general murmur of agreement amongst the group. Any planet that thought it could survive without the protection of the Imperium was a potential threat to the Imperium, not to mention to itself. Order and piety demanded that it be brought back to the Emperor's bosom, swiftly and brutally.

"However, as I have said, I do not intend our visit to be a long one. Starveling is mostly a desert world, and its people live primarily beneath the ground. An assault from orbit would be protracted, difficult and costly, and acquiring tithe from a hostile population could lead to needless bloodshed. To avoid these issues I propose sending a small force down to the surface to bring the governor himself aboard _the Yolenna Symphony_ so that he can oversee the standing down of his forces and preparation of the appropriate tithes with our protection."

The ship's second officer and Master of Ordnance, Pak Stieg gave a crooked grin and thumped his fist on the table. "Huzzah," he growled. The other officers were more discreet in showing their pleasure at the plan.

"I have spoken to the Master-at-Arms about a proposal for retrieving the governor. We have settled on a plan that will require three strike teams to be delivered from high altitude to the Governor's mansion, with covering fire provided by the Yolenna's contingent of bombers. The governor's mansion is a modified land engine, that acts as a bridge across the canyon around which the mining caves have been dug. It is the only above ground feature of the Starveling colony. We expect its defences to be primarily anti-aircraft turrets and a personal guard force. Mr Sykarin and myself believe that the strike teams, supported by our Sentinel contingent and Marauders will be more than up to the task of infiltrating the palace, cutting off any escape, and retrieving the Governor." Garian nodded as the Admiral acknowledged him, but did not speak.

"It will be some time before we reach Starveling. I have ordered full post-translation sweeps of the fleet, and I would ask the Lord Captains of the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Portentia_ to kindly prepare your ordnance teams for orbital and planetary strikes. Of course, we may find that the presence of the approaching fleet in orbit changes the governor's mind in time for a peaceful resolution, and so I have given him time to think about his decision. But" the Admiral glanced down at his pocket-chrono, "it had been one hour now. I believe he has been given time enough."

* * *

"You are dismissed gentlemen, thank you." The Admiral gave the order, and the assembled officers began to dutifully filter out. "My sons will stay behind." Jak was left alone with his father, the image of his brother, Mustek, beamed across from the _Siren's Wail,_ and the control servitors who continued to fuss silently over the hololithic projectors. The servitors had once been men, but were now little more than drones, lobotomised and mechanically augmented to carry out whatever tasks they had been designed for. Their presence was barely noticed aboard the ship, and no one thought twice about conducting a private meeting in front of them. Jak moved himself to the centre of the round table, across from his father, trying to ignore the huge image of his older brother that loomed behind him on the vid-screens.

"You were late Jakobian." His father said. "What prevented you from attending as soon as we left the Immaterium?"

"Flotsam, Sir." All over the galaxy sailors had different names for the strange and terrifying creatures that got caught in the wake of ships as they traversed the strange unreality of the Warp, or the Immaterium as it was more formally known. On board the Yolenna they were called flotsam, and on the lower decks you spat when you said the word. Jak resisted the instinct in this case.

"Casualties?"

"Armsman Ismith, Sir." No flicker of recognition crossed his father's face. Once the Admiral had been one who prided himself on knowing the names of all the armsmen on board his ship. What had changed? Had he grown jaded and complacent with age, or was he diminished by this new role, by the pomp and politics of being a rogue trader in charge of a fractious colony fleet?

Jak did not have time to reflect on the question. His father's face was more than typically severe.

"Whatever the reception we receive from the Governor, I plan to meet him with the full ceremony due our position. We are Rogue Traders now, not Commanders of the Imperial Navy." His voice betrayed no trace of the disappointment that he no-doubt still felt at that fact.

"We are representatives," he continued, "not only of the God-Emperor's might, but of his majesty. I will have both of you join me when I receive the Governor. We must be thinking of our dynasty now. This route, if it turns out to be profitable, may be one that our family follows for generations. I would have the leadership of Starveling know the face of my heir."

"Thank you, father," said Mustek. Jak shuffled awkwardly, but did not look behind at the vid-image of his elder brother.

"Are you satisfied with the Siren's preparedness for battle?" His father asked. Jak did look up at his brother this time. He was stroking his thin beard as he considered the question. Admiral Velasquez has brought only two of his seven children on this voyage; it was lost on nobody that one had been made an armsman and the other commanded a frigate.

"We've had a minor riot in the lower decks, warp madness I suppose. It's currently in hand. We'll be in fighting shape by the time we reach Starveling."

"Good. I will have you lead the strike on the planet's orbital defences. When you are done the Yolenna will move in to launch strike teams and bomber squadrons. The _Portentia_ will remain in reserve." He turned to look at his youngest son, but before he could say more, Jak interrupted him.

"I will lead one of the strike teams on the Governor's palace."

"You will do as you are ordered to by your Master at Arms and your Lord-Captain!" His father snapped. "Captain of the _Siren's Wail_. You are dismissed."

"Yessir!" Jak could hear the snap to attention in his brother's voice. The perfect dutiful son. He was left alone, shaking in a combination of anger and fear, an old fear, a fear that he knew from his childhood. He forced himself to speak, as he always had throughout his life when face with the terrifying gaze of his father.

"I will volunteer for the strike team. I know the equipment as well as any other armsman. Are you going to deny me the opportunity to serve alongside my men?"

Looking down at him, his father raised one eyebrow. It had always been an effective trick for silencing his wayward son.

"How long have you served as a sergeant-at-arms. Six months now?"

"One year by the ships log," Jak said, softer and sullen now. "Or it will be by the time we reach Starveling."

"You think I should have treated you more kindly? Given you run of the ship? Restored you to the ranks of the officers? "

When Jak had washed out of the navy, after a string of minor scandals and the backing of his family withdrawn, his father had taken him aboard his new private command, but not without seeking to add to his youngest son's humiliation. He had made him an armsman, not even a petty officer- Jak had needed to earn the Sergeant rank himself.

A naval officer through and through, Oberon no doubt saw being ranked an armsmen as one of the greatest indignities a man could experience; sailors had no time for their armsmen brethren, they were men who manned the ship's brigs and armouries and maintained guard watches but did none of the true work of operating a void-ship. Moreover, they were often shunned as the delivers of punishment and discipline. However, Jak had found that in the comparatively lax discipline of a privateering vessel, the gap between sailor and armsman was not so great. With the opportunities that his role allowed him for distinguishing himself in minor skirmishes and assault boat actions, he had thrived as an armsman and won the favour of many of his fellow crew.

He did not rise to his father's bait. "I will serve however my Lord-Captain asks me to."

"Good. Return to your duties. When we perform official trader business with the governor, you will stand at my shoulder as one of my sons. At all other times you will remember that you are a sergeant-at-arms and you will perform your duties without complaint or special treatment for as long as I say so."

"Yes Sir."

* * *

On his return below decks, Jak was nearly knocked down by the ship's navigator. This would be a punishable offence in many cases, for although it was entirely the navigator's fault –he stumbled around in robes far too big for him, all but disappearing into his hood- the Chief Navigator was possibly the most precious cargo the ship held. Seeros of House E'Al'Xandros was a junior member of one of the great houses of the Navis Nobilitie, the mysterious and controversial aristocracy of mutants upon whom the Empire relied for safe transit through the Warp. House E'Al'Xandros had spent millennia creating, acquiring, and hoarding a treasure trove of secret, priceless charts of the Segmentum Obscurus, as well as the fabled Halo Stars, the mysterious far reaches of space beyond the everyday workings of the Empire. It was for this reason that the Admiral has spent so much in acquiring a navigator, even a very junior navigator, from the prestigious family.

Jak helped the young navigator from the floor, and caught a glimpse of his face. It was haggard and grey from days spent tirelessly navigating the fleet through the Warp, responsible for the overall safety of hundreds of thousands. His blonde, nearly white, hair hung lank across his startling third eye that was currently closed over. It was this frightening mutation that made the Navigators so valuable, and so vital to the survival of the Empire. With their third eye they could gaze safely into the Immateirum itself and make sense of the roiling ocean of colour and madness in which His Imperial Majesty's ships travelled.

Jak had been born aboard a ship, and across his life had spent more time in the void and the Warp than he had planetside. Still his lack of fear or concern for the horrors of the Immaterium or the Navigators' powers that would be unusual even in a veteran voidfarer with centuries of experience, let alone a young man still in his twenties. All knew that the stoic heroes who braved the Warp were vital for the survival of the Empire, keeping the fragile lines of trade and transport open; no one expected them to enjoy it. Jak was an oddity in that regard.

"Good drop?" Jak asked Seeros, smiling good-naturedly at the Navigator, who was barely an apprentice but still carried himself with dignity of a prince. The young Seeros, looked at him with a mixture of concern and anger, clearly trying to gauge whether he was being made fun of.

"The helmsman on this vessel is too sloppy," he complained, his voice high and reedy. " I said again an again that we would come in smoother a point to starboard but he thinks he knows better than a member of the Navis Nobilitie. The bumpiness of the translation to real space is all his responsibility." With that said, he clutched his robes around himself with as much dignity as he could muster and stalked down the corridor, followed by his ever-present retainers, who glared silently at Jak.

A servo skull was drifting down the corridor in the other direction and the Navigator prissily batted it out of the way as he passed. It bounced harmlessly off the bulkhead and turn its sightless gaze towards Jak, tiny thrusters attached at the foramen magnum keeping it hovering at about head height.

Jak shrugged. "Don't ask me," he told the bobbing skull. "I thought the drop went great." Although it couldn't hear a word that wasn't a direct instruction, the grinning death's head seemed to nod in agreement.


	4. Part 1- Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"All Hail to the Glory of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Beacon of Humanity, Light that will never die, Lens of the Astronomicon, Saviour of the Dark Wastes of the Galaxy. Rejoice, for the time has come to lend your hands to the glorious efforts of our salvation. Rejoice, for your sword and shield is here. Rejoice, for the blessings of the Emperor will be upon every planet whose tithe is paid and receipted in full. Stand down your orbital defences and ground forces, for the representatives of your God and Emperor have arrived to receive tribute."

The vox-casters across the flight decks were all playing the same speech, in fact all the vox-casters across the whole fleet were repeating the message, as it broadcast across every channel, both in the void and on Starveling.

Borjean groaned as he struggled into his battle-suit, hopping across the launch-bay deck. "When will they end this ceaseless prattle?" He was the only member of the landing forces who hadn't arrived fully kitted up, and Jak could smell the alcohol on his breath. "I need a drink, and we haven't even fought yet."

Garian strode past, slipping his hand into one of Borjean's pockets and retrieving a flask, which he shook in his sergeant's face.

"You don't need any more pickling, you old drunk. I should throw this down on the drop site so that I know you'll aim your Sentinel for it."

Borjean glared, his face going redder. Any insubordination was cut short by the interruption of Grabitz, the greenest member of the landing group.

"Maybe we won't fight," she said. "Maybe they'll obey the hail." The three more experienced armsmen looked at her for a moment, and burst out laughing when they realised she was serious.

"It's been weeks that we've been broadcasting that message," Jak told her. With Garian's assistance he eased his grav-chute over his shoulders and began tightening straps.

"If they were planning to let us enter orbit peacefully they would have powered down their orbital defences days ago. This message isn't for the benefit of the planet's governor. He's made his choice."

"It's being broadcast for all the other citizens of the Empire down on Starveling," explained Garian. "So they know exactly why burning wreckage is about to fill the sky." He thumped Jak's grav-chute to indicate that it was secure, and fixed Grabitz with an appraising stare. "We're void-born in five, gentlemen." He stalked off to spread the word.

Grabitz was green, greener no doubt than Garian would have wanted on this away-mission, but she'd grown up on a low gravity world like Starveling and knew how to operate the grav-chutes that would be essential to their success. Garian had acquired thirty grav-chutes prior to the fleet's departure and had been training the strike-teams on their use in different gravity environments throughout the voyage. But this would be the first true test of the ship's planetary assault capabilities, which were vital to the _Yolenna's_ long-term viabilityas a privateer.

Jak took pity on the Grabitz, who was missing half of her essential kit. The rookie armsman was fervently muttering prayers to herself and fumbling with the straps of her chute in her nervousness.

"Put that on" Jak called out, tossing her a rebreather and helping her to tighten her straps. "The locals might not mind the air down there but you don't want to be fighting with burning lungs." He slung his own rebreather around his neck and clipped a spare to his bandolier, snug alongside his handful of personal grenades. "Smile, rookie," he said with a friendly thump on the young woman's shoulder. "You're about to ride into hell and come back. It doesn't count if you don't smile."

* * *

On the bridge of the _Siren's Wail,_ Mustek watched streams of data play across the projectors in front of him as the orbital defences of Starveling began to power their weapon stations. The planet was of moderate technological development, but had clearly pumped vast resources into building a network of satellites and orbital defences in the centuries since their last contact with representatives of the Empire.

The centrepiece of the planet's orbital defences was a great plasma-spewing fortress, floating in geosynchronous orbit directly above the governor's mansion. It was towards this target that the _Siren's Wail_ was bearing down.

"Fortress in range," a survey officer reported. "Clear to launch torpedos."

"Hold fire." Mustek ordered, his eyes fixed on the hololithic field. Officers below him exchanged glances but the ship continued its progress.

"Moving within orbital fortresses range. Orbital fortress has fired weapons" This po-faced statement came from a servitor, almost seeming to anticipate the flash of light from the fortress and the great beam that flashed across the cold void of space. The ship shuddered at the contact.

"Shields, Report!" Mustek called out. The Master of Shields conferred a moment with her junior officers before responding.

"Shield's holding at over half strength. Charging healthily, Sir."

"Ms Dekstra?" Mustek turned deferentially to the Ship's Master, a veteran sailor who knew her capabilities better than anyone alive. "Will the shields hold till we bring her in range for a broadside?"

The _Siren's Wail_ was a scimitar-class escort, a strange old hybrid of a ship. Like it's sister, the falchion-class, she was the size of a frigate, but long and rectangular, with a shallow scoop of a prow, built more like a light cruiser than a true frigate. She carried 16 cannons arrayed in broadsides, but none were big enough to be considered full macros; in a ship-to-ship battle a true broadside would woefully outclass the Siren, but Mustek suspected that she was more than a match for the light shielding of the orbital fortress.

The ship's Master appeared to agree, as she only briefly consulted with a servitor and some junior offices before reporting back. "Aye aye, Sir we'll be in range before she can bring down the shields."

Mustek smiled. "Good. Mr Loke, let's flash her the port guns."

The bridge officers couldn't help but smile too. There were few things that brought a void-ship's crew more pleasure than firing a full broadside, and even though most had served aboard far more powerful ships that the Siren, they still appreciated the gesture. The men of the lower decks would be appreciating it too. Mustek was a well-liked captain and even the lowliest indentured rope-puller amongst the crew took satisfaction in setting the cannons off.

The _Siren's Wail_ made a leisurely, wallowing approach, presenting her fully armoured and void-shielded prow to the desperate fire of the orbital fortress. Despite each shot landing, none could effectively wear her shields down to the point of damaging the thick adamantine plating of the prow. Her speed held steady and her Master of Ordnance soon reported that all the gun ports were open and all cannons ready to fire.

Privately, Mustek believed he captained by far the best-crewed ship in his father's small fleet. The Symphony bore too many landsmen; being a voracious carrier cruiser, she needed a huge crew to keep herself running and they had pressed the men from prisons and slums of Hive cities all the way out of the Calixis Sector. The _Portentia_ had most her old complement of crew, but she was an ailing, damaged vessel and suffered from a fractious group of officers, who had been unprepared for the change in discipline and routine required on a long privateering voyage. Meanwhile, the _Siren's Wail_ had brought together many good officers that Mustek had served with in the Navy, and retained a crew that had known and flown her for generations. Her complement of tech priests, in particular, could coax such rapid changes in the Siren's control-thrusters that she manoeuvred better than any frigate Mustek had ever known.

So it was then, that any of the observing captains in the fleet would have seen the Siren execute as neatly angled an approach as any frigate could pull off, swinging around smoothly to present her port guns to the orbital fortress as soon as she was in range. Across the vessel, hundreds of servitors, savants and officers worked frantically to calculate the precise levels of thrust and turn required, fixing the speed of the fortresses orbit and the current, staggering speed of the Siren. This data was fed through to the helmsman, connected to his wheel by thick metal-insulated neural circuitry.

The portside cannon hatches creaked ominously, a noise that reverberated throughout the ship, as hundreds of straining crewmembers strained as the end of great lines of chain to hold open the muzzle shield. Massive shells were dropped down from munitions control in slings, and swung into place by the gun crews, who heaved till their bodies' were ready to given out and sung liturgies of worshipful rapture as they eased their precious burden into the bores. Each shell had been named, blessed and covered in scraps of prayer scrolls, ready for its final journey into the void.

Up on the bridge, in the captain's cupola, Mustek gave his order with calm satisfaction, bringing the organised chaos of the guns decks to an inevitable conclusion. "Fire cannons."

Roaring with the sustained energy of tiny suns the arrays of cannons fired in quick succession, the recoil of their operations shaking the metalwork of the ship and briefly deafening the guns crews (those who weren't already deaf from a lifetime of service to the mighty weapons). Across the ship every standing crewmember steadied themselves against the force of the broadside, as the aging inertial dampeners did their best to stop the ship from being flung away from the target.

On the bridge the effect was somewhat anticlimactic. After the shuddering had subsided there was a pause of minutes, the entire bridge crew holding its collective breath. Then, on a hololithic projector in front of Mustek, the orbital platform flashed red for a moment and disappeared. Tens of thousands of kilometres away there would be fire and destruction, but here on the bridge there was just the satisfaction of a job well done.

"The target has been destroyed," confirmed a sensor officer.

"All right little brother," Mustek murmured to himself over the cheering of the bridge crew. "Now let's see what you can do."

* * *

The _Yolenna Symphony_ sedately glided into orbit above the planet. It's launch bays opened, and the squadrons of bombers and troop carriers spilled forth, plunging into the planet's atmosphere.

Jak's strike team were strapped-in tight, holed in the belly of a Condor-class Valkyrie transporter, a snub-nosed troop mover, modified for orbital deployment and currently dropping with bone-rattling force into the atmosphere of Starveling. Above the roar of their entry and the sub-orbital craft's twin engines, Jak could hear the staccato thumping of anti-aircraft fire all around.

The transporters were heavily armed, and supported by the _Yolenna Symphony's_ two squadrons of aging marauder bombers, dropping out of orbit to rake the planet's meagre defences. Despite the noises of chaos and destruction Jak was quietly confident of a safe entry, close to their destination.

"Conditions?" He called out to the front of the ship.

"It's a beautiful day on happy Starveling" called out their inordinately cheerful pilot. "There's clear skies and the temperature is hot and dry, perfect for working up a sweat. Las-fire will glow a beautiful gold, the air is just about breathable and the women are said to have incredibly low standards. You'll have a wonderful trip."

"I appreciate that," Jak called back. "Gentlemen!" He barked to his team of ten. "We will jump in under two minutes. You all know the plan. We hit the ground, rush the governor's mansion and catch them with their pants down. That's it. Try not to get shot."

The armsmen roared their approval. Sailors liked simple plans, and there was no plan simpler than overwhelming the enemy with speed and surprise. However, Jak was more concerned about the specific detail of finding the governor within the cramped, dark confines of his mansion and then retrieving him safely with lasers firing all around.

The _Yolenna Symphony's_ augers had already indicated that the governor did not reside in any kind of conventional mansion. Due to the harsh, desert environment of Starveling the majority of the population lived in pods beneath the ground. The governor's mansion was the only man-made feature above the ground.

Once it had been a land engine, an ancient terraforming device, over 500 metres long, which travelled on enormous tracks. Or it least it had travelled on them, until human or mechanical error has sent it toppling over the edge of a canyon. It had wedged itself there, centuries ago, hanging uselessly.

Whilst the rest of the population scrabbled for survival beneath the Earth, the governor and his guards ruled from this converted land engine. After becoming wedged, it had been secured in place with great metal chains, running from the four corners of the vehicle and attached to twelve foot tall pillars driven into the earth hundreds of metres away from the edge of the canyon. It had held there over the centuries, acting as a bridge across the canyon and a testament to the rugged resourcefulness of the planet's populace.

Narrow bridges had been built from caves in the cliff face to the engine's tracks, which jutted out from its body, hanging uselessly over the canyon. Across its flanks it bristled with gun decks, awkwardly welded to the hull. The upper surface of the land engine had been built over with makeshift guardhouses, barricades, and a bastion tower, giving it a ramshackle, uneven appearance. Somewhere beneath all of this, within the land engine's structure, would most likely be the governor himself, leading the planet's defences. The Yolenna strike teams had no notion of the layout of the mansion. Land engines, despite their size, were often as cramped and maze-like as any void-ship. Finding the governor would not be easy.

All of this was on Jak's mind as the Valkyrie levelled off, thousands of kilometres above the planet's surface. A light glowed green at the side of his head, and he hauled open the hatch of the Valkyrie. The roar of rushing air caused by changing pressure was a familiar sound to all voidfarers. His heart sang with an eagerness for battle that all sailors knew well, the excitement that came from the clash of arms and the possibility of plunder.

As he watched his strike-team throw themselves one by one from the relative safety of the Valkyrie, Jak observed the strafing beams of anti-aircraft fire piercing the clouds from below. Their pilot had been right, he thought to himself as he jumped. Lasfire did glow a particularly pretty golden in this atmosphere.

* * *

The wind roared past his ears as Jak plummeted to the surface of the desert steppes of Starveling at Terminal Velocity. At 3000 metres he grasped the activation mechanism on his grav-chute and clenched hard. Jets on his back activated in sequence, growling into life as they slowed his fall until a few hundred metres from the ground the whirring of turbo-thrusters became louder than the wind.

He hit the ground running, stumbling at first, but he had travelled the surface of many worlds and was experienced at adjusting his stride and power to strange new gravities. Soon he was at a sprint, racing towards the canyon.

Their landing had been a success, the various members of his squad were scattered within only a few minutes of each other and were all converging on the same spot, the great canyon that cut across the steppes like a scar and which hid the Governor's palace from easy access.

It wasn't long before the firing started. Beams of laser light flashed out from the direction of the governor's mansion, striking the Earth and throwing up clouds of stone and sand. Jak could not see the men holding the guns but he could feel the sharp stones hitting his bare arms and face. He ran towards the fire, un-holstering his carbine.

It was a short-range las weapon, powered by a pack at his right hip, capable of delivering one hell of a punch at a close enough range. At his left hip hung his shock-rapier, thumping against his thigh as he ran.

The sound of his breathing -echoing harshly through the respirator- and the crunch of his boots on dry earth were joined by the hiss of las-fire hitting the earth around him and the chatter of auto-guns in the distance.

Jak could see other Yolenna's converging on him now, trying to make up the distance between themselves and their sergeant. They had been spread out over a large area as they landed, but all knew where they were heading. There were no tactics, no cautious advance, just a frantic rush to be the first to the land engine and into battle. Garian would have dropped with another strike team nearby, unless his Valkyrie had been shot down.

But there was no time to wonder about that. Jak raised his gun high in the air, roaring through his respirator to spur the others on.

He reached one of the heavy poles that held the first link of chain securing the governor's mansion in its precarious position. The links were as thick as his body. He vaulted onto the first link, firing short beams from the stubby muzzle of his las-carbine towards the defenders, still too far to realistically have a chance of hitting anyone.

He skipped across the taut chain like it was a balance beam. The planet's low gravity helped to counteract the weight of the grav-chute still on his back. Golden lances of las-fire flared around him as he launched himself off the chain and onto the deck of the land engine, landing behind the first barricade and in the midst of the defenders.

His recklessness had caught them off guard. He raised his weapon, useless over long distances but lethal at this range. Three shots fired, cracking the air like thunder. Three defenders dropped lifelessly to the ground.

The key to success as a solider, Jak knew, was in the ability to go from running like your very life depended on it, to shooting with dead-calm steadiness. To go from the chaos of dodging and diving and grappling desperately, to making ice-cold decisions with the precision and accuracy of a born killer. If you could flow between those two states so fast that your heart went from pumping furiously to complete stillness in an instant then, well, you might just survive to keep your heart pumping another day.

Jak ducked behind the wall of the guardhouse, rolling a frag grenade into the access hatch. After a few moments, he heard a satisfying boom, and smoke erupted around twisted metal. He quickly retreated as more palace guards began to spill from access hatches all across the surface of the land engines roof, leaping behind the first row of barricades and popping off a couple more shots from his carbine blindly.

He had been the first to cover the distance but he was soon joined by those Yolennas who had not been gunned down on the open steppes. Garian and Grabitz slid into the barricades alongside him, faces shining with exertion behind their respirators.

"The Governor will be in there somewhere, directing the defences," Garian shouted over the noise of battle. "We can call down the Sentinels and clear the deck here, then start moving in."

He pointed across the land engine, to a central guard tower, about three hundred metres away. Palace guardsmen were operating a quad gun, spinning furiously to pick out targets in the sky. Heavy boltguns were placed on all four sides of the structure, guarding the approach.

"That quad gun will need to be dealt with before the Sky Talons can drop in," Garian said. They'd been joined by more of the strike team now, carrying the components of heavier weapons, and Grabitz assisted Garian to screw together the front and rear tubing of the compact, shoulder mounted rocket launcher they'd brought. "Jak, would you be so good as to give me eyes on the target."

Another armsman passed Jak his binoculars, and peering just above the barricade, Jak scoped out the quad gun of the guard tower.

"Target range three five three. Height eleven. Gravity, lift a point. Wind at your back."

"Gentleman, kindly clear the back blast." Garian said, squinted down the tube's targeting reticule, confirming Jak's targeting. Jak was used to his style of speaking at times like this. It was a strange mixture of the Navy's overblown civility and his old regiment's tersely efficient jargon. Jak had attempted to pick up pieces of it, but he knew that Garian despaired at the unruly, undisciplined approach to warfare that Jak and many other sailors took.

"Back blast clear!" Jak called, huddling with Grabitz, back against the barricade. Garian fired, there was a whoosh as a hot cloud of smoke escaped the back breech, followed by the whine of the rocket and a frantic screaming that could be heard all the way across the deck and then, finally, the explosion.

"Quad gun is downed," confirmed an armsman, into his com-bead. "Sky Talons are cleared for insertion. Repeat, Sky Talons are clear. Bring in the bloody Sentinels!"

Grabitz gave a whoop of victory, bouncing with excitement, her face flushed with the heat of battle. A chatter of autogun fire tore through her head below her helmet, as she bobbed too high above the barricades. Gore splattered across Jak and Garian as the young armsman dropped lifelessly to the ground.

Both returned supressing fire, holding off the advancing palace guard. The battle was still in the balance, as dozens more palace guards pinned down the Yolenna's armsman across the width of the land engine.

A minute later, the first Sentinel landed.

* * *

Little of the battle for the Governor's mansion could be gleamed from the bridge of _Siren's Wail._ The ship tracked vox reports and monitored squadron movements as wave after wave of bombers emerged from the _Yolenna Symphony_ and dove deep into the planet's atmosphere to begin strafing the planetary anti-aircraft defences. When it became clear that they had established a degree of air superiority the Valkyrie Sky Talons were sent in, carrying the Yolenna's team of bipedal war machines, the Sentinels. The Symphony's prow-mounted lance swivelled ominously in its rotating mount, angling downwards to point towards the planet surface. It would be utilised only if absolute destruction became a necessity.

The _Siren's Wail,_ the _Portentia_ and the _Yolenna Symphony_ got to work destroyeing the planet's network of defensive satellites. All were designed to deal with much smaller threats than this, and could offered no resistance as they were systematically obliterated. As this work was being completed, Mustek kept one ear out for the scattered Vox Chatter reporting that the strike teams had converged on the governor's mansion and were being joined by the combat walkers delivered by the Symphony's Sky Talons.

The mining colony of Starveling had centuries to prepare for an assault such as this, but even millennia would not have been enough for such a small planet to develop the protections it would need to secure itself against the ordnance that three fully armed naval void-ships could bring to bear.

Mustek was a dutiful son, and would never dare question his father. But a small part of him did wonder if all this destruction was really worth it. Blast apart a few satellites, certainly. Present an overwhelming display of force to the planet's governor. He could understand such measures. But systematically destroying all their defences simply because the governor had dragged his feet on recognising the authority of a privateer sat uncomfortably with the eldest son of Admiral Velasquez.

Jak was another concern for Mustek. His youngest brother was eager to prove himself, and all too happy to throw himself into the fiercest fighting. Mustek worried for his little brother, down on a hostile planet, with only his sword, gun and wits to protect him. Father was happy enough to encourage it, driving Jak to further displays of recklessness. But Mustek worried it could only end one way. Sooner or later he would need to confront his father about it.

A nervous junior officer, too small for her jacket brought his attention back to the bridge.

"Repeat that?" he asked.

"A vox from the command shuttle bay, Sir" she repeated, enunciating carefully in her nervousness. "The tech priests say that something has malfunctioned in the power cells and that they have become volatile."

"I see." The orbital fortress had failed to pierce the Siren's voids shield, so this had to be a malfunction rather than the result of the fire fight. It might only be a minor malfunction, but as it involved the temperamental and highly combustible power storage cells, he was not willing to take any chances.

"Has the Infernus Master been informed?"

"Sir, rioting amongst the indentured on Gun Deck 17 has occurred again, and the Infernus Master is caught on the other side. It may be some time before he is able to bring his teams in."

"Mr Yurghan," Mustek turned to his first officer. "How is the situation in the sky?"

His first officer, a generous, elderly veteran, permitted himself a small smile that tugged at the bio-circuitry covering half his face. His Lord Captain was known for his inability to let any little issue on his ship lie; He would always get involved, even if the ship's Enginseer Prime did not want him there. "Skies are clear my Lord-Captain," he answered. "We have destroyed all orbital weapons stations and the _Yolenna Symphony_ has safety launched all atmospheric craft."

"Then you have the cup. I will go investigate the malfunction."

Mustek stood up, took one last satisfied glance at the holo-projectors displaying the subjugated orbital defences of Starveling, and left the bridge.

* * *

Dropped from the sky by the swooping Sky Talon, Borjean's Sentinel landed with a shock wave that knocked nearby armsmen to the ground. Grav-thrusters were still firing as it hit the deck, servos rotated furiously and piston rods slid into armoured joints, pushing the bipedal walker into a crouch. Its thick, stubby toes dug gouges into the metal surface of the land engine.

From the sentinel, Borjean's tinny voice could be heard, amplified by the vox-caster atop the armoured canopy.

"Bloody hell, I've spilled my drink! What's that? Oh, right, fire in the hole hey? Here's a bonfire for you!" The Sentinel's mounted weapon hissed as super-heated gas vaporised the moisture around the muzzle.

"Everyone down," screamed Garian and Jak at the same time. Across the barricades, the _Yolenna Symphony's_ men ducked. The roar of the sentinel's multi-melta burning armoured barricades to slag was briefly deafening.

The Sentinel strike-team advanced surefootedly, throwing forth their molten destruction, forcing the governor's guard into a defensive retreat. The thirty or so surviving armsmen advanced with them, moving from barricade to barricade, firing till their guns ran hot.

"The governor!" Garian called, pointing. Jak looked in the direction of his finger. Across the other side of the Land Engine, on one of the many bridges running from the mansion to the canyon's edge, a figure in classic Imperial regalia, surrounded by a dozen or so bodyguards, was cautiously making his way across the bridge. Once he was in the network of tunnels within the canyon he would be all but impossible to retrieve by the Yolenna's small force.

Garian grabbed Jak by the shoulder, thrusting his face into Jak's.

"You want to be remembered, armsman? You want your father's commendation?" He pointed out across the canyon to where the Governor was crossing. "No one becomes a hero by staying in cover!"

Jak did not need further motivation.

Flinging himself over the barricade, he ducked frantically as lasfire whipped around him, then sprinted across the metal decking, firing short bursts from his hip, trying to keep his foes down.

He passed Borjean, maniacal cackling coming from the Sentinel's vox-casters as he threw super-heated death at the enemy. Jak ducked and rolled behind the Sentinel, coming up behind a guardhouse and bringing up his carbine to fire one handed, hitting two guards. One dropped instantly but the other was caught only a glancing blow to his armour, and staggered backwards, his shots going wild. His power pack beginning to run down, Jak swung his rapier free and swung upwards, severing the guardsman's gun arm at the elbow.

More guards were emerging from hatchways now, a dozen or more. Jak slammed a new power pack into his carbine, running backwards as he did. The palace guards watched in astonishment as he threw himself backwards from the land engine, plummeting downwards.

With his free hand he activated the grav-chute again, spinning and tumbling until the thrusters kicked in. He kept firing as fell, managing to hit a turret gunner operating from the side of the land engine, and two of the guards on the bridge below.

He landed neatly, dropping to a crouch from thirty metres up, hitting the bridge dead centre. It swung precariously with the force of Jak's landing, and for a moment he nearly tumbled to the edge. A couple of metres to the left or right would have seen him plummeting hundreds of metres to the depths of the canyon.

Jak's arrival caught the governor's bodyguards completely by surprise. As he rose to his toes, he swung his shock rapier out, smoothly dancing into a fencing position. The sword crackled with energy as he flicked it towards the first guard's neck, blood projecting from the wound and hissing as it evaporated at contact with the charged weapon. The guard dropped lifelessly to the ground, his carotid artery slit and pumping blood furiously.

Jak slipped a brightly coloured grenade from his bandolier and let it drop to the ground as he dived forwards towards the remaining guards before they could fire at him. They moved to protect their leader, raising swords in a bristling protective circle, unwilling to fire their guns with so many of them forced in so close on the bridge.

"Get the governor to safety!" Cried one immense bodyguard as he moved to block off Jak. Jak veered back as the guard thrust forward with his power-staff, and swung his rapier in a wild, fending arc. The tip scoured the guard's armour with a scream of dispersed power. Jak dodged the second thrust, flicking his rapier at the guard's legs, forcing him into a wild dance to avoid the cut without throwing himself off the bridge.

Jak circle the guard, finding himself in the midst of his enemies. The man in the finery -Jak had to assume he was the planet's governor- stood before him, pistol raised and pointed at Jak's head. Jak had expected the governor to be a stereotype, a corpulent, grasping coward. Instead he found himself looking into the eyes of a grave, dark statue of a man, barrel-chested and furious. The governor's small las-pistol did not waver, but he had not chosen to fire yet, either.

Beneath his respirator Jak found himself smiling. He dropped his rapier immediately. It powered down as it left his hand, clattering harmlessly to the still swaying bridge.

"Please, order your men to drop their weapon,ns your Excellency. I have only come to give you this." He held out his spare respirator, slowly, not wanting to be shot by the nervous guardsmen.

The governor looked it, his grim face breaking into confusion.

"What do you mean by this?" He asked. Jak pointed at the small orange glowing sphere that sat at their feet.

"I dropped that hallucinogen grenade ten seconds ago, your Excellency. In a moment your men are all about to start seeing pink orks and thinking they can fly. I would hate the same thing to happen to you, so please put on your respirator and have them drop their weapons. My father would very much like to start negotiations."

* * *

Mustek strode the corridors of his ship, confident that even amongst the rush of battle the crew would make way for him. Still, he did his best not to interrupt essential activities as he travelled the distance from the bridge to the command-deck shuttle bay. An electro-priest scurried up to him, data slate in hand, warning runes scrolling across it at a rapid clip.

"What is the situation?" Mustek asked.

The priest was too junior to wear more than a small amount of facial biomechanics, a flexi-respirator that covered his jaw from chin to nose. There was plenty of human left there for Mustek to see the expression of nervous confusion.

"The launch bay power-storage cells, Lord-Captain," he said. "They are in great distress and may react at any moment. I don't understand it, they have not even been in use."

"Something left over from the Warp journey perhaps?" Mustek asked. It was common enough for a crewman or two to go mad in the Immaterium, but occasionally the machine spirits of the ship would be plagued as well, taking on deranged, malicious purpose and striving against their designed functions.

"Possession?" The nervous tech priest yelped. "Yes, perhaps. But, my Lord Captain, we must not get too close. The Infernus team has been called. The storage cells are very unstable and I'm afraid that the wrong rites will rile the machine spirits further."

"This isn't about their bloody spirits, man. Those things are a bomb waiting to go off. We need to de-couple the storage cells from the power grid before an explosion takes out half the flight deck!"

"But Lord-Captain, even possessed, the surge guards would prevent the storage cells from overloading."

"Unless there's been sabotage." Mustek said. The two of them broke into a run.

The command deck launch bay had been cleared of personnel, although a handful were still hovering warily by the port bay doors, on the far side from the power cells. The great storage cells were used to power the specialised shielding that prevented the ship from venting when the airlocks were opened. The storage containers looked as normal, but sensors across their side were glowing an ominous red, and servo skulls bobbed and clacked in hovering agitation around them.

The Infernus Master, a ship's officer with the integral role of preventing and fighting fires on board ship, would usually be tasked with managing these matters. However, he was trapped on the other side of the Siren, cut off by the warp-mad rioters that had been a thorn in the Mustek's side since dropping in from the Immaterium. Armsmen would be cutting the rioters down to clear a path, but that could take precious minutes and in the meantime they were at risk of a power surge that could cause immense damage.

"Seal the blast doors" Mustek barked at the hovering crewmembers. "Infernus Suits," he said, in a lower voice, to the gathered tech priests. "Get them on if you need them, lads, we'll deal with this one ourselves."

By chance, the flame-retardant Infernus Suits hung in neat rows on racks close to the power cells. They wouldn't provide much protection if the cells overloaded but naval protocol dictated they be worn, and Mustek saw no reason not to follow protocol. He gestured, and the small group of gathered men hurried with him to put them on.

He was halfway across the launch bay when his world exploded.

* * *

The governor of Starveling held himself in dignified silence as a Valkyrie returned them to the _Yolenna Symphony_. In the relative calm of their return, Jak examined the man. His expression of granite-faced determination had not changed since he had put on the respirator and allowed Jak to escort him back to Garian and the other Yolennas. He was middle aged in appearance, with close-cropped grey hair, and a strong drum-bellied frame.

The _Yolenna Symphony_ lacked much in the way of grandeur compared to other privateers, but still the sweeping Imperial staircase and twenty foot stained plas-glass windows of the command deck atrium should have been enough to awe most men. Yet the governor held his head high and looked straight ahead, as he was escorted from the ship's command shuttle-bay to the captain's quarters, un-cowed by the immensity of the light cruiser. Jak was impressed.

Jak escorted the governor in personally, still covered in the sweat, dust and gore of battle. His father stood at the head of a score of immaculately dressed officers and functionaries, wearing his full naval regalia. A gold Imperial eagle sat on one breast, and the crow's skull of House Velasquez on the other. He gave Jak a stern eyeballing but said nothing, directing his attention instead to their hostage.

"Governor. Welcome to the _Yolenna Symphony._ I am her Captain, Oberon Velasquez, rogue trader and former Admiral of the Imperial Navy. This is Archdeacon Benetor, spiritual head of this region of space, and representative of the God-Emperor himself."

It was at this introduction that the governor's fury finally exploded.

"How dare you?" He shouted, his voice deep and sonorous but rising with agitation. "You come to my planet claiming to represent an Emperor we have not heard from in centuries, slaughter my guards, kidnap me-

Whatever else he had been about to say was cut off as Oberon's fist caught him firmly on the jaw, knocking him back. The governor stumbled, his hand to his face, but he did not fall to the ground, as many men would have from such a blow. He was stunned and furious, but still wise enough to know not to retaliate whilst surrounded by armed men. The Archdeacon stepped forward, fingers steepled, and addressed the governor in soft, dangerous tones.

"You will be quiet and listen. Your words of doubt are a grave blasphemy, but a forgivable one. You are being brought back to the fold, child, and that is never easy. Over two hundred years of tithe to the Emperor are owed. They will be paid in full, through goods such as the priests and administrators of this fleet deem suitable."

The governor scowled. "This is wanton theft. My people will not submit to this piracy!"

"You will explain to them the necessity of a peaceful collection of tithe." Oberon said, his voice calm steel. "Your defences have been destroyed. The protection of the Imperium is now utterly essential for the survival of this planet. Moreover, you will be supervising the collection personally from aboard this vessel. Your safe return to the colony will be contingent on a successful realisation of your planet's assets. Any aggressions from your people against the legal representatives of the Imperium will be answered for by yourself, on Holy Terra."

"At length," the Archdeacon added.

There was little else to add. Oberon's personal guard took the Governor away. The officers were dismissed to their duties. There was a tension in the air; Jak could sense it. No one was celebrating the victory, even quietly.

When everyone had left except for Jak and his father, the elder Velasquez let his face fall, just a little. Jak shuffled his feet.

"If that frown is because of the blood, I would have changed into a fancier coat, but there just didn't seem to be time." He offered.

"There was an explosion aboard the _Siren's Wail_ ," Oberon cut him off. "Multiple casualties. Your brother was amongst them."

Jak found his hand going to the hilt of his blade, but there was no enemy to fight here, just a hollow pit in his stomach.

"Oh."

"He is alive. The Siren's chirugeon has every expectation that he can recover and in due course may return to his duties. First Officer Yurghan will command the ship until such time as your brother is ready to resume command. The voyage continues. Nothing has changed."

"Yes Sir."

"Good. I will let you clean up. You are dismissed" His father gave the barest of nods, before ascending the stairs to his suite. Alone, Jak finally noticed the fatigue of battle. He sunk down to a velvet-carpeted step, wondering at the events of the past few hours.


	5. Part 1- Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The battle of Starveling was never in doubt. The warships of the Imperium were flying fortresses, most carrying enough weight in plasma lances, macrocannons, turrets, torpedos, interceptors and bombers to level a planet if they chose to. The devastation of the Starveling's orbital defence systems had been a clear message of the Imperium's displeasure at the lack of enthusiastic response to the requested tithe. The holding of the governor simply ensured that the mistake would be rectified swiftly.

The tithe was collected over the following days in the form of planet-wide 'asset realization', a favourite euphemism of the Adeptus Administratum for the forced collection of any and all valuables that could constitute worthwhile payment of planetary taxes.

The crews of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , _Siren's Wail_ and _Portentia_ met with little opposition on the surface; the governor was surprisingly well loved, and his presence aboard the Symphony ensured his people's cooperation. Armsmen kept careful watch to ensure that there were no ship-jumpers or time-wasters whilst on-surface. They did not have to do much work: the sullen hostility of the locals, the harsh climate and the distance from any reasonable shipping lanes meant that there was little chance of desertion.

The ecclesiasty were exceedingly helpful in soothing the agitated people of Starveling. The ships' priests as well as the Archdeacon's men had gone amongst the populace, reminding them of their sacred duties and of the importance that proper worship of the God-Emperor held for their immortal souls. New cults were already springing up amongst the hardy miners, as particularly susceptible individuals were reminded of the good word of the Emperor and took to spreading it with a passion. Within a few days, schisms had even emerged in some of the cults, which the he Archdeacon seemed to take particular satisfaction in. Men who vied with each other to show their true devotion to the God-Emperor were men whose minds were turned away from the darkness.

The fleet's tech priests had taken an interest in the land engine. Despite the fact that it was no longer working, they traversed every deck and entered every crawl space, cataloguing components and exorcising blasphemous machine spirits. They did not share their findings with anyone, but with quiet professionalism they wrung dry every scrap of knowledge that could be squeezed from the archaeotech and collated it for the Adeptus Mechanicus to make use of at their leisure.

Still, there was also little profit to be found in the endeavour. Although the ships asset realisation gangs were indiscriminate in taking anything that looked valuable and wasn't nailed down, from raw resources to personal heirlooms, the cargo bays of the fleet's ships were barely half full by the time that the Admiral decided to call a halt. The gangs were finding little that would be profitable enough to justify the fuel required to transport the goods to the void-ships in orbit.

All in all, Admiral Velasquez could look with mixed emotions at his work in the Starveling system. He had fulfilled the expectations of his Letter of Marque to the letter, which would be to the satisfaction of the Admiralty, but there was absolutely nothing that they had found on the planet that would justify repeat visits, or even allow him to recuperate the costs of the voyage.

It had, however, been a satisfactory demonstration of the Symphony's planetary assault capacity. The only blemish was the accident that had befallen the _Siren's Wail_ , an accident that they still could not entirely explain the cause of, and that had left his eldest son and heir requiring the life supporting mechanism's of the chirugeon's vault.

* * *

Jak sat alongside his brother's life-support sarcophagus in one of the quietest parts of the _Siren's Wail_. The only sounds were the hum of the medical mechanisms that enveloped his brother, and the soft thudding rhythm of the ventilation fans above his head.

Only Mustek's face was visible from within the sarcophagus; the cloudy glass could not fully hide the horrific burns that covered it. Although the chirugeons had assured Jak that Mustek was unconscious and could neither feel pain nor hear him, he still spoke to his elder brother as if he were listening.

"We retrieved the Governor before he could flee into the city itself. You'd be proud brother. A whole world subjugated in under a day. There's been very little resistance to the collection of the tithe"

He was speaking softly to his brother, hand rubbing nervously against the leather kneecaps of his void-suit. The autosanguinators were surging through Mustek's bloodstream, repairing burnt and ruined tissue. Still, it would be some time before the eldest Velasquez son would awaken.

Jak and Mustek had never been close. Mustek had always been the eldest, the favoured son, and a promising midshipman when Jak was still a young child. Still, they were the only two of the Admiral's children travelling with the fleet, and they were family. Jak felt that he owed his brother something for that.

"It wasn't much in the end. The fight or the tithe. The men are working hard at bringing valuables back to the ship, but this planet has so little. I think Father is about ready to return the governor and abandon it. The point that the Sector government wanted made has been made. I don't know that Father will make back his investment on the voyage, but it will be enough to keep the Letter."

The Letter of Marque differed substantially from the fabled Warrants of Trade that allowed the great rogue trader families to roam the galaxy freely, with all the status of a High Lord or an Imperial Inquisitor. It circumscribed very specific activities that the owner could undertake, and specific regions of space in which to undertake them. In return for his ship, Oberon had been tasked with certain duties: remind Starveling of its place in the Imperium, and then deliver the colony fleet safely to the Demetrius System. As long as those tasks were completed however, he was given free rein to harass and destroy the enemies of the Empire wherever he saw fit, and to take whatever resources were required to fulfil those goals. The costs of keeping just a single ship operating were unfathomably vast; running three ships was bringing the Velasquez family close to financial ruin.

There was one other important way in which the Letter of Marque differed from a Warrant of Trade. A warrant signalled the establishment of a new Imperial dynasty, its power handed down through the generations. The powers of the Letter of Marque died with his father, and whichever of his six surviving children he bequeathed it to would have to make the humbling and uncertain journey to Terra in order to personally request its reinstatement.

This did not bother Jak greatly. As the second- youngest of the Admiral's children and a disfavoured child at that, he knew that any advancement he made in the world would have to be outside of his father's shadow.

If his father ever deigned to let him out of his shadow.

"You know he didn't say a thing about me single-handedly taking down the governor's guard?" He asked his brother's unconscious body. "I don't know what else I can do brother, and that's the truth of it. I could be as good a captain as you, as dutiful as Jurion, as ambitious as Messina. I know I'm as good as any of my brothers and sisters, all I need is the smallest ship and I can prove it. But I don't know if he's ever going to give me the chance."

"Sergeant?" The gnarled hand of the doctor touched his shoulder. "There's been a hail for you from the Symphony."

The Siren's chief chirugeon was an avuncular old sailor, his obese body a cacophony of clockwork, tubes and wiring. Most of him had been blown apart in battle and replaced at one time or another, and although his rank and relative wealth should have guaranteed him better quality cybernetic replacements, he had donated every single one to injured voidfarers in his care. He'd saved only the cheapest parts for himself; the greasy smoke given off by old actuators and the squeak of clockwork operated parts were testaments to the care that he had for his patients. A gentle smile creased across his jaundice-yellow face as he patted Jak's shoulder.

"You father has asked you attend him at his suite immediately. And I need to run a scan on my patient."

"Sorry doctor," Jak stood up and eased himself past the chirugeon's bulk. He looked back at his brother.

"Father needs you to recover, brother. I don't think he could bear it if I was the only child here with him on this voyage."

* * *

Jak returned to the _Yolenna Symphony_ in thoughtful silence, staring out the plas-glass panes of the transport shuttle at the glorious darkness of the void. He walked alone from the shuttle bay to his father's suite, footsteps echoing on the cold metal walkways. The lumens were darkened on the route to the command deck. This fact stood out to him, as his father had always insisted (and personally paid for) brighter lumens across his ships, to better drive away the shadows of the Warp.

By the time he reached the gilt and velvet of the atrium, Jak was beginning to sense that something was wrong. His pace hastened up the stairs. One of his father's personal bodyguards was dead at the top of the staircase, blood and brains splashed across the carpet. Jak broke into a run.

There were no other guards on duty. The door to his father's office was unlocked. Jak spun the locking wheel and slammed the door open, ignoring the heavy clank of the thick metal plating as it bounced on its hinges.

His father lay on the floor, alongside the governor of Starveling. Both had been shot between the eyes. From the tableau it looked like they had been in the midst of playing Regicide. A spilled glass of amasec lay beside the governor's corpse.

Jak stood there, staring, for one horrified moment. Then he ran to his father's desk and hit the vox-caster.

"This is, uh, Jak Velasquez. I need First Officer Al Dessi here. I need her here right now."

Five minutes later, Ravenna was crouched over his father's corpse, her pale face a twisted mask of shock and rage. She looked up at Jak.

"How?"

"I don't know. Apparently he hailed me over from the _Siren's Wail_ and then I found them both like this. I was meant to find them like this."

Ravenna pulled at the micro-bead on her collar.

"Bring the Master-of-Arms here and the Admiral's personal guard. All his guard."

"Al Dessi?" Garian said as he strode in, then he surveyed the scene. His hand immediately went to his pistol. "What happened here?"

"The Lord-Captain has been murdered."

Garian stepped towards Jak, his taut face seemingly grey with shock.

"I'll put him in irons Ma'am." He said to Ravenna. Jak turned, the horror of the moment growing every second. Garian, his mentor and friend, without a moment's hesitation had assumed that he was the murderer. How would anyone else doubt it?

"No," Ravenna said, placing her hand to her temple, still staring at the lifeless face of her former Captain. "You can't take him to the Brig. Jak was the one who found the body. We have no proof that he ordered or committed the murder. And the Admiral was very clear on his wishes should anything befall him".

She looked up and pointed one dark-gloved finger at Jak.

"He's our captain now."

* * *

The Admiral's body was collected by his personal guard, solid armsman, all chastened by their failure to protect their Lord-Captain. They wrapped up his corpse and carried it discreetly to the Chief Chirugeon for examination. They collected the governor's body, with far less silent ceremony, to be disposed of.

Ravenna, Garian and Jak stood in a small circle, waiting in silence until the last of the guards were gone. Garian was the first to speak.

"Who would do this?"

"We will know soon," Ravenna said. "I've asked the lexmechanics to bring us the servo security vids for the last hour."

Jak said nothing, his mind still reeling from the realisation that he was now in command of the ship, and the fleet.

The security vids were inconclusive. They showed the governor and the Admiral playing regicide together, conversing civilly and drinking amasec. They showed a hooded figure, difficult to distinguish in the low light, killing the guard posted at the Admiral's door. Then the figure said something at the door's vox and the Admiral could be seen pressing a button at his desk to allow the mysterious assassin in.

The governor stayed seated at the Regicide board as the Admiral and the hooded figure briefly spoke, then without any warning the figure raised a las-pistol and shot both men; Two shots, quickly and professionally delivered. He paused to ensure that they were both dead, and then left the room.

"We don't have recordings from across the whole command deck. The hooded killer disappears outside the atrium."

"That pistol," Garian said, still staring at the screen. "That is not one from the ship's armoury. A personal weapon."

"Then we need to find it."

"We won't be able to find it," Jak said. "One pistol aboard a ship this size? There are a million places it could have been hidden. That killer looked like they knew exactly what they were doing. They wouldn't keep the weapon that could be linked to the murders." He realised that both Ravenna and Garian were looking at him for an order. "We should still look though. Garian, have your armsmen sweep the ship, for the hood, the weapon and anyone you can link to either."

"Then return here," Ravenna added. "With your permission, Sir, I think we should gather the senior officers."

"Yes, have them assemble in the briefing room."

Garian left, and Jak studied his new First Officer. She was an intimidatingly striking woman, taller than Jak, her long hair as black as the void. Of all those officers who had flown with his father, she alone had forsaken her former uniform, and now wore a black leather duster that reached the floor. She had been in no denial about the career she had sacrificed in order to serve a man who had now been murdered.

"I'm grateful that you trusted me, Ravenna."

"Lord-Captain." She addressed him formally. "Permission to speak freely?" He nodded.

"Respectfully, I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. But the Admiral wanted one of his sons to fly this ship in the event of his death, and I will see his wishes respected."

"I see. In that case, I think you need to be in charge of the investigation into my father's murder."

"You do?"

"I know what this look likes. My father is dead; my brother is in a life vault for the Emperor knows how long. I want to find out who is responsible for this and I want it made damn clear to every sailor aboard this ship that it wasn't me. In that case, I think it's best to have someone who doesn't trust me and doesn't like me in charge of the investigation. Impartiality, see?"

* * *

The assembled officers took the news gravely, but with the unflappable stoicism of old naval hands, even Stieg, who had spent most of his career as a pirate before his life was saved and redeemed by the Admiral.

"Assassinated?" Stieg growled. "How?"

"Las-pistol, straight to the head. Whoever did it was able to get very close to the captain before firing." Ravenna told them. Her voice was still full of raw pain.

"And the Admiral's eldest son?" the ship's Enginseer Prime asked in his resonant, synthetic voice. "He is the commander of the _Siren's Wail_ , and the next in line to inherit."

"He remain unconscious and in a life-support sarcophagus." Jak said. "The fleet's Chief Chirugeon does not know when he will awaken or be fit to return to duty. I have ordered his sarcophagus to be brought aboard the Symphony, and put under guard, in case he is a target as well. We do not know the motive of the killer."

The ship's Master of Etherics was visibly shaking and when Jak spoke he could contain himself no longer.

"This man," he pointed, his voice in a high shriek, "killed our Lord Captain! He cannot claim the Letter of Marque!"

"Wrong on both counts actually," Jak said, cheerfully ignoring the accuser's tone. He had expected this, and had brought the Letter itself with him. In the shock and surging emotions of the sudden loss of his father, he found himself oddly grateful for a confrontation, regardless of who it was with.

He had never seen the Letter of Marque before, but Ravenna had retrieved it from a shielded stasis vault in his father's suite. He unrolled the great parchment, with its heavy gilding and read from the relevant section.

"…Do hereby give and grant to the said Lord Captain, Admiral Oberon Velasquez, of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , a commission to undertake the business of the Imperium as outlined above, as a private man-of-war, and unto the commander of the said ship, and unto the officers, armsmen and others who shall be under your command full power to undertake etcetera, etcetera." He looked up.

"The commander of said ship. That's me." He pointed at himself. "My father is dead. My brother is incapacitated. When that occurred, the warships fell into my ownership, and I have placed myself in command."

That provoked another outraged squeak from the Master of Etherics, but Jak barrelled on.

"I am authorised to complete the mission entrusted to my father. It is as simple as that. Believe me when I say that I am aware of the suspicion that has fallen upon me, and I will put the most impartial, thorough investigator onto identifying the real murderers. My first officer." He nodded towards Ravenna. "Meanwhile we have a task to undertake, on behalf of the God-Emperor, a glorious task and one that will receive my full attention as Lord-Captain of this ship. When it is finished, we will return to the Sector governor and resolve the question of the Letter and ownership of the Symphony."

"You killed our captain!" Screamed the little sensor master again.

"Master-at-Arms. That man to the brig." Jak said, instantly. Garian, who had been in his own silent world looked up at the order, and his red eyes (one a mechanical glow, the other bloodshot and pained) darted for a moment to Ravenna. She gave the merest hint of a nod.

"Guards!" he called. They entered the room and at a glance from Garian took the Master of Etherics by the shoulders. "The brig."

His boots bounced across the floor as he was carried out, screaming "Assassin! Murderer! Thief!"

Jak watched in silence as he was dragged out. Then he turned back to the officers. His officers. They were all stone-faced.

"You all have duties to get to I'm sure." He said quietly. "You are dismissed, gentlemen."

The officers, all but Ravenna, filed out silently. Jak watched them all the way out the door, before allowing his shoulders to slump, just a little.

"That went better than I had expected."

"They are in shock," Ravenna said. "More than one will suspect your hand in your father's death, but there is enough doubt that they will remain quiet. The ship will come first."

It was true, Jak realised. The majority of them were old sailors, veterans of the Imperial Navy where scheming between the ship's captain, the Enginseer Prime, and the Admiralty Commissar often led to bloodshed. As long as the new captain was competent, the officers stayed out of the politics. What mattered was that the ship kept running.

Jak rapped his knuckle on the desk.

"So, Number One. What next?"

"The voyage continues. I will investigate the murder of your father and report to you as soon as we have a suspect in custody".

"Do you believe I did it?"

She looked at him. As long as Jak had known Ravenna, she had intimidated him. She had always been his father's shadow: sensible, loyal, unflappable, and a woman you would be a fool to cross. She seemed to wait a long time now before speaking.

"I cannot believe you would be stupid enough to try to inherit the Symphony this way. When we return to civilized space you will relinquish everything to your surviving brothers and sisters. The assassination gains you nothing."

"Not true," Jak couldn't help but correct her. "The assassination gave me a ship. A carrier cruiser with two escorts. It's not easy to take that away from a man, even with the law on your side."

She looked at him sharply and he shrugged.

"It's true. I'm an innocent man but I'm not going to hide the fact that whoever did this, and for whatever reason they did it, they gave me the opportunity of a lifetime."

"If I find the evidence that you killed your father, or if I sense that you plan to pervert the course of justice, then I will shove you out an airlock myself."

He chuckled. "You sound just like him."

"Your father was a great man. You'd be wise to start trying to sound like him yourself."

* * *

As Jak left the conference room he was confronted by the Archdeacon, who was shaking with anger and followed by a half dozen of his acolytes. Jak broke into a stride, so that the elderly man was forced to hurry along beside him to catch up.

"You have been meeting with the officers. I should have been informed of it."

"Forgive me. You should have. Now you have been. Glad that the matter could be solved so swiftly." Jak kept walking as he talked and the Archdeacon had to slide sideways into a crabwalk, unable to fit easily on either side of Jak as he descended the narrow companionway to the Lord-Captains deck. His acolytes were pushed into single file, trailing the Archdeacon like the tail of a comet.

"Do not mock me, young man. With the death of your father command of this fleet falls to me".

Jak spun to face the Archdeacon, unable to keep from laughing.

"You?" In the close confines of the corridor Jak towered over the Archdeacon but the man was not remotely intimidated.

"I am the senior representative of the Administratum and Ecclesiasty aboard this flagship. The wellbeing of these faithful pilgrims is under my guidance. You have no notion of the powers I can command back in civilized space. So I suggest that you focus on keeping this void-ship flying safely, and leave matters of command to me, young man."

"You may do whatever you like with the colonists, Your Eminence, turn them around or fly them into the sun for all I care. But there are three warships with this fleet, all of which belong with my family and all of which are now under my command. So if you wish to travels the billions of kilometres we have left to go unmolested by the Orks, Eldar, pirates, reavers and countless other monsters in the Warp and the void, I would return to your quarters and be very bloody grateful that you still have us. Now if you will excuse me, I have an officer to execute, a planet to appoint a new governor of, and a father to bury. Good day, Your Eminence."

He left the Administrator sputtering indignantly, and heard his rage-filled scream behind him as he walked away.

"You talk to an Archdeacon of the Adeptus Ministorum in this tone? The Inquisition will know your name! Oh I will make sure they know it. You think I won't?"

His ranting was silenced by the heavy clang of the door closing. Jak returned to the Lord-Captain's suite in silence. Without even knowing why he had gone there, he found himself alone in his fathers –no, _his_ \- great cabin. He found himself walking, almost in a reverie, across the plush carpet, past the ancient artworks and relics, over the bloodstains that a mindless servitor was steadfastly attempting to remove.

He moved around behind his father's desk. The vox-speaker here was an old skull, polished till it gleamed, the speaker-grill sitting inside its open mouth. He rapped his knuckles thoughtfully against the skull's dome, wondering for a moment which ancient, innominate crew-member had earned this obscure form of immortality and how.

"No," he said to himself, finally answering the Archdeacon, even if the audience were a lifeless skull and an uncaring servitor. He turned to the vista pane behind the desk, addressing his words to the great, terrible blackness of the void. " _Everyone_ will know my name."

* * *

There was nowhere on the _Yolenna Symphony_ large enough that the whole ship's population could come together for the funeral of Admiral Oberon Velasquez. As it was, tens of thousands of crewmembers, many of whom had never seen the Admiral in life, were gathered on the Port-side landing deck (with the bomber and interceptor squadrons launched for ceremonial flyby) but this was still only a portion of the ship's full complement.

Many of the crew of the lower decks had lived their whole lives on board the Symphony. They thought of themselves as citizens rather than crew, indentured servants perhaps but ones who dedicated their lives to the difficult, dirty and occasionally deadly tasks that were essential in the running of the only home they'd ever known. They braved the terrors of the warp and the void in equal measure, raised their families and did their duties, never in control of the direction or destiny of the ship, only knowing that their lives played one small, critical part in the Emperor's grand plan for humanity.

Below the low decks were the under decks, common on most large warp-capable ships. These were wholly given over to the unknown number of feral mutant inhabitants, past crew who had fallen to the ravages of radiation exposure. They were tolerated purely for their effectiveness in keeping down warp-incursions and xenos infestations, and because it was too great a cost to purge them. The role of the ship's Twistcatcher, corralling and controlling the orlop mutant population, was a crucial one on any ship, although seldom recognised or celebrated.

For these reasons, as well and the sheer size of the vessel, it was never entirely clear how large the numbers of the ship's population were. Like a small town, it fluctuated with births and deaths without anyone paying any great attention, until the number of able voidfarers grew too low and affected the running of the ship. Most of the time the crew would be scattered to their own pockets of the vessel, and it was only during events like this, when as many as could be crammed into one space were congregated together, that you could begin to grasp the sheer scale of human endeavour that was required to keep the old ship flying.

Jak's eyes wandered the crew, _his_ crew, ignoring the oppressively stale air they created and the restlessness they exhibited. He stood to the side and allowed the ecclesiasty to run the ceremony. He was dressed in a dark, high-buttoned coat, and the Admiral's cloak of his father's old rank. He had not earned it, but who aboard the ship would deny their Lord-Captain the right to wear what he chose?

Archdeacon Benetor spoke first, a long, droning speech hailing the glory of the God-Emperor, which washed over Jak without ever being registered. He was followed by the Enginseer Prime, Dhukov, who gave thanks to the Admiral for keeping the ship running and praised the Omnissiah, the machine-god worshipped by red-robed priests of the ship's engines. Then Benetor got up to speak again, all but spitting in the Omnissiah's face. There were angry whistles and comments in binary from the huddled masses of the ships tech priests. Jak ignored them and signalled for the funeral to continue.

There were dozens of speakers, from across the ship. Jak had granted the right to speak to anyone who wished to make a gesture to the old man or say a few words.

Ravenna went first. She said nothing, but she lay the Admirals sword, an ancient power cutlass, it's ornate hilt printed with the arms of House Velasquez, across his body in its open casket.

Stieg placed two shining gold coins across the Admiral's eyes, and spoke to the assembled crew of the second chance that the old man had given him, when Stieg had betrayed the twelves ship's of his pirate flotilla in return for a pardon and the opportunity to remake himself as a loyal Naval officer.

The fleet's Astropath Transcendent spoke movingly of crying the Admiral's name into the void using her psyker abilities, so that it one day might reach Holy Terra and be collected in the great books of the dead.

Representatives of the gun clans, the enormous families responsible for maintaining the fleet's weaponry, sprinkled holy black gunpowder across the coffin.

Merry Servant #7, an odd, ungainly creature who lead the ship's small band of those servitors that (through sheer accident) had regained self-awareness, gave a short, halting speech praising "The One who Gave Good Orders Lots".

The Groff, chieftain of the underdeck's mutant tribes and unofficial member of the ship's officers as Twistcatcher, placed a garland of human-ish looking teeth over the coffin, before rushing back to the shadows.

More faces, more speeches. They passed in a blur for Jak as the funeral stretched into hours. He even permitted Jestross the chance speak, taking some pleasure in the scandalised expressions of the Archdeacon's people as the xenos addressed the audience in fluent, if oddly accented, Gothic. He told of his planet and his people, who had worshipped the Admiral as a God after he xenocided half of them. Then he had returned and decimated the rest for daring to worship anyone but the God-Emperor, leaving them a ravaged diaspora in awe of the great man's power. The feline, predatory Jestross had agreed to do whatever it would take to be part of "the Velasquez Pride".

Finally Jak realised that all eyes were on him, for the final speech of the day. The well-disciplined crew were restless, looking at him with dirty, tired faces and expectant eyes. He knew they would be confused and concerned.

These would be his first official words as captain. They would be his last words to his father. He suddenly felt very tired. His eyes watered. The recycled air of the ship felt oppressive for the first time in his life.

He looked down at some words that he had scribbled the night before, with the assistance of a bottle of lower-deck moonshine. He had clenched the notes so hard that the sweat from his palms had made his writing indecipherable. The sight made him smile, just a fraction. His father had once said that his youngest son was at his best when he was improvising. Of course, his father had been more often heard to say that he was going to vent his youngest son from an airlock. Jak wondered if the Admiral would have appreciated the irony of this moment.

He walked over to the coffin and picked up his father's power cutlass, gazing thoughtfully at the seal. He looked back up at the silent crowd. His crew.

"My father was a great man. Now he is dead. We commend his soul to the Emperor of Man. We commit his body to the void. Glory to the God-Emperor. The voyage continues."

And that was it. The coffin was lifted and deposited with due ceremony into an airlock. There were no windows on the launch bay deck, so the only indication that his father's body had been ejected into space was a single lumen that flickered from red to green.

The squadrons initiated the flyby. The _Siren's Wail_ and _Portentia_ gave a thirteen-gun salute. The crew went back to their duties. Jak kept the sword.

* * *

Behold the _Yolenna Symphony_! An Enforcer Class Light Cruiser, a city in space, a cathedral built in testimony to the mighty power of the Imperium of Man. Four kilometres long from bow to stern, her lance turrets point firmly towards the unknown horizon. The Imperial Eagle stands atop her great armoured prow, wings outspread, eyes fixed forward.

Watch as she comes about, and the great plasma thrusters, giving off the heat of suns, begin to power down. A thousand priests of the Omnissiah chant a chorus of binary exhortations to the engines, a liturgical lullaby as they go quiet. Exhausted gangs of indentured crew, the lowest of the low, sink to the ground, sweat and grime shining against their skeletal forms. The crack of the lash halts, but only for a moment. The tireless overseers do not wait long before rousing the sailors for the next stage of the manoeuvres.

Operating an exo-suit power loader with slow, juddering steps, a wild eyed tech priest advances on the ship's infernal core. His face is a sickly, waxy sheen. He is all alone, walking the single, narrow gangway in the great spherical Warp Drive Containment Unit, hundreds of metres across, at the heart of which lies a small fuel insertion casket held in an adamantine column above a gaping pit. In the power loader's shielded grip, he holds a tiny thimbleful of the eldritch fuel which allows the ship to rend great tears in the fabric of space and time. Step by agonising step the priest forces himself to walk towards the insertion casket, as reality itself seems to warp around him and sibilant whispers from the Immaterium goad and taunt him.

Across the fleet, the ecclesiasty leads the crew in fervent liturgies and prayers for salvation. The air is filled with the scent of incense and sacred unguents. Hearts and minds are turned to the God-Emperor, the prayers of the voidfarers entreating him to protect their ships against the horrors of the Warp. This is an essential task; every journey through the Immaterium is a battle to protect the vessel from being torn apart by the forces of unreality. It is a battle won in the minds of its crew just as much as it is won by the ship's shields.

Only in the Enginarium are the priests of the ecclesiasty forbidden. Here only the rhythmic droning of the tech priests is permitted, their ancient litanies essential to soothe the fickle, complex machine spirits of the countless engine components that must be assuaged before the Warp-rift is opened. They chant their prayers in a mixture of languages, binary, low gothic and high gothic, shouting over the squeal and clank of machinery and the roar of thruster fires. Following the rhythms and instructions of the tech-priests' prayers, sailors desperately heave new fuel rods into place, whilst rune priests scurry the length of the rods, strategically attaching scraps of prayers and supplications. The twenty-foot tall rods are finally pitched off their rollers with a ragged cheer, slamming home with a mighty clang. As the chanting rises to a fever pitch, the Omnissiah Confessor cries out his algorithms of blessing, passing word upwards that the engines are prepared for translation into the Warp.

Above this flurry of activity, in the cavernous chambers of the Enginarium, Armsmen prowl the gantries restlessly, guns held loosely at their sides. Their task is to monitor the workers for any signs of corruption or madness. At the slightest hint of warp-riot they will open fire, ending the corruption before it spreads. They know all too well the dangers of the enthralling voices within the Warp, the siren song of madness that can doom a ship in moments.

On the command deck, hundreds of officers, servitors, and lexmechanics monitor the ship's progress. Lord-Captain Jakobian Velasquez sits in his throne atop the Captain's cupola, flanked by his First Officer and the Ship's Enginseer Prime. At his command the engines are powered up for translation and the Gellar-field shields are spun up. In the darkness of the void, the fleet converges on the Symphony. The Cobra-class destroyer _Portentia_ and the Scimitar-class frigate _Siren's Wail_ form up on her flanks, moving in so close that their Gellar-fields join, forming a great bubble that the transport ships slide into. The calculating power of thousands of lexomat servitors across the fleet is required for such precise manoeuvres, and dozens of servitors overload and collapse from the exertion.

On the sacred deck, the inner sanctum of the towering Navigation spires that rise from the ship's quarterdeck, Seeros –forty third of his name, sixty fourth in line of the great Navigation House E'Al'Xandros- is strapped into his throne. Leather bonds tie him tight at the wrists, chest and legs. Attendants fuss around him, washing his brow and tightening his bonds. One, kneeling, delicately repaints the chipped lacquer on one of Seeros' long fingernails- a purely symbolic armour perhaps, but symbolism is vital to the task he is about to perform. His sanctum is sealed; the air thrums with the chanting of attendants, the sound filling the young man's ears. He tilts his head back, allows his third eye to open fully and moans with pain and terror as he stares deep into the horrors of the warp.

The signal is passed on to the command deck; The Navigator Primaris is ready to guide the ships. The Lord-Captain passes the order across the fleet for translation into the Immaterium. The Enginseer Prime chants the ancient rituals of the Warp-drive. Ahead of the _Yolenna Symphony_ space itself seems to twist and tear, a ragged lightning bolt of immense size and indescribable colour splitting the darkness, opening a hole into a dimension of pure chaos.

The plasma engines fire, and the ships slowly advance towards the rift.

The fleet drops into the Warp.


	6. Part 2- Interlude

**Part 2: The Demetrius/ Lysander System**

* * *

Oberon Velasquez had expected that all of his seven children would join the navy when they were old enough. In preparation of this he had taken them on many of his commands, in order to familiarise the children with the skills they would need to follow in his vaunted footsteps.

Many of Jak's earliest memories were of shipboard life: running narrow corridors with his brothers and sisters, exploring the forbidden decks, or sneaking up to the observation deck to gaze at the magnificent vistas of the merciless void. But his most vivid memories were all of the bridge.

Oberon had ensured that his children were present on the bridge for every engagement, tucked well out of the way whilst the hundreds of servitors and bridge officers steered the ship and her crew through the hellish warfare of the void. Jak had been enthralled by the rhythm of void combat; the frantic pace of the hundreds of bridge officers and the cool-headed decision making required by their captain in the midst of utter chaos, desperation and decisiveness combined.

After each successful engagement the Velasquez scions would be invited to the Captain's cupola to be tutored or quizzed on the finer points of the victory. For example they might gaze out on the wreckage of a vanquished xenos vessel whilst their father would say, "This one we call the Torture Cruiser of the Eldar. It is a vicious, deceptive ship."

The Torture Cruiser, sinuous and bladed in silhouette, venting from a dozen wounds, had looked dangerous even in defeat.

"She is faster than our cruisers, and better armed. You saw the range on her when she had the gage on us. Rather than shields she possesses foul, deceptive sorcery able to hide from our augers and absorb the energy of our weapons." Oberon had gestured out to the vessel, fixing his children with a look.

"Mustek," he had addressed his eldest and the solid young boy had snapped to attention. "How would you proceed the fleet, having made contact with such a foe, one that flittered in and out of your sensor scans like a darting bird."

Mustek had barely hesitated. "I would bring the fleet in close, Sir, escorts protecting the flagship's stern, and proceed towards the enemy's last known position with caution."

Their father had looked thoughtful. "A prudent approach. I have seen many good men, prudent like yourself, torn apart by these monsters." He thumped his hand down on the edge of his throne. "You have played into their hands, son! You've presented them with a clustered, slow moving target that they can pick off at range at their leisure, running circles around you without ever being hit.

No, it is boldness that defeats the monster. Spread your ships and lure him close, tempt him into foolishness, and then strike with overwhelming force. It is your only chance of survival."

"Father!" Jak's twin sister, Amaretta, had been bouncing on her toes with eagerness to ask a question. "Why do you call it a torture ship?"

Their father's face took on a grim tightness. The children had drawn closer together almost instinctively, wary that their wayward sister had tempted his wrath with the interruption. But he had not exploded into fury, or cuffed her. He only looked away, eyes fixed on the Eldar ship and some distant memory.

"Never let your ship be captured by one of these vessels," he had said quietly. "Vent your crew, shoot your officers if there is no hope left, but you must never let them be captured alive."


	7. Part 2- Chapter 5

**Chapter 1**

For a moment, from a particular point of view, the black emptiness of the void seemed to blur and then split into a great technicolour gash, from which seven ships were expelled into the darkness of the void. They had arrived at their destination, at the very fringe of the Demetrius System.

It was a fact well known within the Imperial Navy, but almost anathema outside it, that translating in-system, that is, within the gravitational pull of the local star- was an act of almost suicidal danger. As a ship translated from the Warp, the effects on its structure of the competing gravity fields of suns, planets and other orbiting bodies could be catastrophic, throwing the ship thousands of light-years off course, hurling it into the sun, or simply stretching it into an infinitesimally thin paste.

During war, of course, Commissars, Generals and Inquisitors, whether through ignorance or hardheartedness, would often demand that naval captains bring their ships as close to battle ravaged planets as possible. The captain could theoretically achieve such a maneuver by taking advantage of Lagrange points; pinhole sized parking spaces in space where gravitational forces were in unsteady equilibrium. However, deviations of even a few fractions in the cogitating calculations, or the ship moving even slightly off course as it exited the warp, would spell instant disaster for these maneuvers. Jak suspected (although military secrecy meant that he would never know the truth of it) that across the countless wars of the Imperium, more soldiers were lost to ship-failures in the Warp than were ever lost in battle. Every captain that attempted warping in-system took his passengers' and crew's lives into his hands.

In war the risk was taken because the alternative was a journey of grindingly slow weeks from the fringes of star systems to the central zone of habitable planets. A battle could be lost by the time reinforcements arrived by this fashion. Better to lose half the army in translation than have the whole of it arrive intact just in time to watch the Enemy celebrate its victory. For the Imperial Guard there were always more troops and transport ships that could be thrown at a problem.

The wary colonists and sailors of Fleet Valesquez could afford a more cautious approach. The _Yolenna Symphony_ led the fleet on the slow passage to the centre of the Demetrius system, where an ancient colony and two ripe, uninhabited worlds awaited. That was, if things hadn't changed in the millennia since the Empire had last made contact with this part of space.

Jak sat in the Lord-Captains throne, elbow on the armrest and chin on his fist, watching as one by one the reports came in from each ship that they had emerged unscathed. Finally, his ship's Master gave him the nod, and Jak signalled for the All-Clear to be sounded. Soon the deck-by-deck reports came through. Apart from some light cannibalism on one of the transports and some damage to the Gellar bilge pumps aboard the _Portentia,_ the word came through that the fleet was unscathed.

"Very good," Jak said. "Fix position and chronometers Ms Trigal and if you would be so good, I'd like an estimate of arrival in one hour. Ms Al Dessi, you have the throne and the cup. Kindly inform the choir to transmit our message to the rulers of Demetrius III."

The auspex techs were already getting to work monitoring pulsar activity and feeding this information to the ship's cogitators. The banks of logic engines clacked busily as they worked to provide an estimate not only of where the ship had emerged, but when. The vagaries of time in the warp meant that there was always a risk the ship had emerged _earlier_ in time than when it had left. Such mangling of the space-time continuum was considered light heresy at best, and always lead to endless paperwork, not to mention complaining from the ecclesiasty and grumbling about overdue pay from the hands.

The process of fixing position and time did not require the captain's presence. As Jak got up to leave, his First Officer caught his eye.

"Sir, I believe the Keeper of the Purse and Master of the Stores were still hoping to meet with you."

"Ah. Yes. Excellent. Very well, send them to my great cabin in ten minutes. And _thank you_ Ms Al Dessi for the reminder."

* * *

Jak Velazquez, Rogue Trader, Lord-Captain and fleet commander, paced the Captain's great cabin restlessly. It had been his for less than a week (at least as time subjectively moved aboard the ship), and he had been surprised to learn very quickly that he found the large space oppressive.

As a young lieutenant in the Imperial navy he had been allocated his own cabin, but it had been a space that you could cover in half a pace, he hadn't been able to stand up straight up in it. And for the last year he had slept and messed with the sergeants of the armsmen, in a molded inset bunk about thirty inches across, which (as the ship had three watches) he'd shared with two other men, taking turns to rest while the others worked. He had become used to having no privacy, to being pushed through the vast arteries of the ship amongst crowds of voidcrew, to resting alongside his fellow man: unwashed, snoring, calling out in their trouble sleep. He was unused to the loneliness and space of command.

Due to the -still unsolved- assassination of his father and the accident (or assassination attempt?) that had befallen his brother, Jak had found himself the captain of a light cruiser and the commander of a small colony fleet. For as long as he could remember Jak had dreamt of being a captain, but he had never dreamt that the opportunity would come so fast or at such a cost to his family. Moreover, he knew that a great deal of his officers suspected that Jak's hand had been at play in his father's death, although they were reluctant to accuse himself without proof, given that he had executed the first man to do so.

He flew as a privateer, under a Letter of Marque provided to his father, with strict instructions to deliver the colonists to their destination. Upon his return, the law stated that he would need to surrender the ships so that they could be distributed according to his father's will. The law also stated that the Letter of Marque (the sole verification of Jak's freedom and command) would become void and that Jak's eldest sibling would have the first right to pursue a renewal of the Letter. Jak's only hope of maintaining his current status was to achieve something so extraordinary on the last leg of this voyage that he could stake his own claim to the letter, or better yet to a Warrant of Trade. One of the fabled warrants would truly give him the freedom of the stars.

He had taken it on himself as his duty to fulfill the instructions of the Letter of Marque, although he knew that its validity was subject to question now that his father was dead. A strong case could be made that command should have fallen to the most senior member of the Imperial administration and priesthood, the Archdeacon Benetor. Another case could be made to turn the whole fleet around and return to civilized space. Jak had argued against both approaches and in his favour was this: the Archdeacon believed that Jak's command was illegitimate but did not wish to abandon the voyage, and the fleet's officers mistrusted Jak, but would take his leadership over the Archdeacon's in a heartbeat. And so Jak continued on as Lord-Captain, his position balanced on a knife's edge.

And now, as Lord-Captain, it was his duty to deal with the Keeper of the Purse and the Master of the Stores.

Humourless men, hunched men, who wore the augmentations of scribes, dendri-quills and auto-readers. They wanted to keep Jak apprised of all the money he was wasting every day that his ships were in the sky, and all the money that he would have to waste to get back safely. In their regular reports on the expenses and losses of the fleet, Jak was beginning to develop a picture of the trap that a jealous Admiralty had carefully laid for his late father when they gave him the Letter.

Along with his Letter of Marque, the late Admiral Velasquez had been given possession of a decommissioned light cruiser, a carrier ship. He'd also been permitted to purchase, at a considerable discount, two recently decommissioned naval vessels, a Cobra-class destroyer, and a Falchion-class frigate, both torpedo boats.

Torpedoes and Fighter/Bomber Squadrons were effective weapons of naval warfare in the right hands, but exorbitantly expensive to operate as an independent privateer. With all the costs of replacement, refitting and repairing these weapons, the Admiralty had gifted Velasquez with a fleet that hemorrhaged thrones like a drunken Scintillian nobleman at a Rogue Trader's bazaar. The plunder they would need to acquire merely to break even on this journey was astronomical. And at every dismal meeting the two men told him about yet more costs and lost resources.

"Sir, Torpedo B-714 has apparently experienced possession of its machine spirits during the journey. Its arming mechanism has begun to sing lewd songs and its targeting mechanism is threatening to hunt down specific members of the ordnance team."

Jak sighed. "Do the tech priests think they can save it?" His Master of Stores shook his head. "Disarm the warhead and dump it then."

"That will bring us down to seven torpedoes aboard the _Portentia_ , Sir"

He said it with no accusation or alarm; it was a simple statement of fact. Jak had to wonder if the man wasn't secretly a servitor.

"What about the collection from Starveling," he asked the Keeper of the Purse. "Have you finished cataloguing it yet?"

"Our initial calculations are almost complete, my Lord-Captain. We estimate that it will be somewhat less than we had first hoped, depending on the trade situation in Calixis upon our return. But I would like to give you an outline of the costs incurred in the battle as a starting point to recommending some savings in future-

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by the frantic klaxon from the vox-caster.

"Sir, this is Al Dessi. We have multiple ships in contact off the port bow. No identification yet, but they look like they've been fighting. Your orders, Sir?"

Relief and anticipation surged through Jak.

"I'm awfully sorry gentleman. We'll have to pick this one up at a later time." He pressed the button by the vox-caster. "Ms Al Dessi, this is Velasquez. I'm on my way. Order the ships to change course for the unknown vessels and beat to quarters."

* * *

"What do you see Ms Al Dessi?" Jak asked, as he strode onto the cupola. Ravenna was standing at the edge of the cupola and she swung a military salute out of habit as Jak arrived. "Lord-Captain has the throne!" She barked and received responses from the scattered officers who were permitted onto this highest section of the bridge.

"Sensors have picked up four vessels, Sir. One is an Explorator ship that has identified itself as _Vonaznaniya-17.8_ and is hailing for assistance. The other three vessels appear to be Eldar, slavers from the ship designs. One 'Torture' Cruiser, designated Freak 1 and two escorts, designated Freak 2 and Freak 3. Freak 2 appears to be in the process of docking with the _Vonaznaniya-17.8_.

"Very good. Black Sky Battle Sphere if you would be so good, centre on the Explorator Ship."

"Standard units?"

"Thank you."

As Al Dessi descended from the cup she called out a repetition of Jak's orders and the tactical battle sphere blinked into life on the level below the captain's cupola. An immense hololithic projection of the relevant patch of space, a galaxy in green light, with colour coded icons representing the vessels in play. Smaller projections appeared around it, a mass of tactical estimates and vector probabilities based on the most current auger and auspex readings, which were updating in real time. The majority of the bridge was given over to sensor officers and cogitating servitors who had the immense task of trying to process and calibrate the vast amount of constantly changing information that was essential to victory in battle. Between the Captain's Throne at the rear of the bridge, and the Helmsman's wheel at the fore, a veritable army of experts and machinery formed the tactical centre of the ship.

Jak watched Al Dessi leave the cup. Two throne attendants stepped forward, looking expectantly at him. He dropped himself into the Captain's throne and pushed his hair back from his forehead, revealing the temple-ports into which the throne-attendants inserted two thin tubes of neuro-circuitry, connecting his brain directly to the ship.

Unlike weapons or vehicles, ships did not possess a machine spirit. But the individual components of the ship did, a billion surging, clamoring spirits that spilled into Jak's mind all at once, from weapons systems to thruster regulators. They swirled together in a cacophony of information and instructions to form one great emergent urge. The experience was one of being opened up to a deep knowledge just on the cusp of intelligence, and a sense of purpose so strong it could be felt as eagerness.

The _Yolenna Symphony_ opened up inside his skull and she was ready to hunt.

"Vox, hail the fleet. I want all ships formed on us and making for the Explorator vessel."

"Yessir, hailing the fleet," called his Master of the Vox.

Jak sat back in his throne, eyes skimming the data slates and hololithic projections raised from the deck in front of him. The Eldar vessels were hovering like wasps around the _Vonaznaniya-17.8._ Their sleek, chitinous builds indicated that these were slavers in their blade ships, the cruelest and most alien members of the Eldar race. A torture cruiser and two raider sized escorts versus a light cruiser, a frigate and a destroyer. Jak didn't count the transport ships as combat assets. The advantage would be on the Eldar's side then, but not overwhelmingly so. There was merit in an assault, particularly if Jak could draw the Eldar in close.

Mentally Jak began to compare his fleet to what he could see of the enemy's, sizing up the relative positions and running through his options.

The Canterbury class transports that travelled with his fleet were effectively irrelevant. They carried barely a few score multi-laser turrets between them and were hopelessly outclassed in speed and agility by the raiders; without the protection of the warships they would be easy pickings.

The Yolenna was an ungainly maneuverer, and her portside thrusters had a lag to them, but between her long range Starbreaker lance, and two launch bays full of Furies and Marauders, she was the best equipped to do battle with the Eldar.

The _Siren's Wail_ , his frigate, had a pretty turn for her size and might even keep up with the cruiser, but her broadsides would be dismal, even against the raiders. The torpedos and that she and the _Portentia_ carried might be useful, but between them they could only manage a salvo of four torpedoes at a time, two each, and there was no surety that this would be enough to land decisive blows on the Torture Cruiser.

The greatest risk was that the Eldar, seeing him coming, would disappear beneath their ink-cloud shields -jamming his sensors as was their way- and attack him from their superior range, running rings around his ships without the Imperial vessels ever being able to land a blow. He couldn't afford to lose any one of his fleet for the possibility of salvaging one explorator vessel. He could not overcommit to the battle either, lest one of the raiders picked off his colonists whilst he was focusing fire on the larger warship.

Jak had some time to consider all of this before engaging the attack. The Eldar were some distance away, and although their speed likely outstripped his, particularly the laggardly colony transports, this deep in space he always had the option of a quick jump back to the Immaterium. Although the Eldar had techniques to track a ship through the warp, they wouldn't do so, for fear of emerging into a trap neatly laid for them by the waiting Jak. The Eldar's advantage over Imperial ships was speed and range. They would not sacrifice these for anything.

Whilst Jak was deep in thought, Navigator Seeros and Enginseer Dhukov arrived on the bridge at the same time. The rest of the senior cadre had already been present when Jak had arrived, but these two had lagged. Even through Dhukov's rebreather mask face and the resplendent red robes that his shriveled, augmented body seemed to recede into, Jak could sense the Enginseer's agitation. Someone had obviously given him word of the Eldar's victims before he had arrived.

"That is a Mechanicus vessel. We must aid it."

Despite a flicker of annoyance at the way his Chief Enginseer spoke to him, Jak flashed him a lazy smile.

"Sit, Dhukov. We're heading in the direction of the trouble, aren't we?"

"We must defeat those xenos, before the ship and all its knowledge is destroyed," Dhukov advanced on the throne, voice raised in agitation, but Ravenna had quickly moved up the steps to the cup and stood between the Enginseer and Jak. "Lord-Enginseer. Sit." She said. There was no aggression, no demand in her tone, but still it was not one that could be ignored.

When the Captain was in his throne and the ship's war drums were piping through the vox, then the bridge was the XO's domain and she stalked it like a lioness. When she told Dhukov to sit, he sat. Al Dessi then returned to the lower level, to be closer to the organized chaos of the tactical group.

With the Navigator Prime and Enginseer Prime sat on either side of the Captain, the senior command cadre were all present, manning their stations and consulting with their juniors, poised with the focused professionalism for which his father had chosen them.

Jak observed the industry of his bridge with a brief, satisfied glance and then returned to his thoughts of strategy.

"Two vessels have disappeared off sensors, Sir. Freak 1 and Freak 3," Called Ms Trigal. This was redundancy, the information was already readily available to Jak and he could not fail to notice two of the three enemy targets suddenly disappearing. But it was also time honoured naval protocol that the Masters would call out to draw their captain's attention to all major developments on the battle sphere.

The cruiser and one of the raiders were gone from all the hololithic images. Whilst they were still far too far away to view through the bridge's vista pane, Jak could imagine the inky cloud of strange matter that would surround them and conceal their energy signatures as they darted away into the darkness, mostly likely moving to flank his little fleet. The third raider had stayed docked with the Explorator vessel and was no doubt boarding her.

Whilst Dhukov was more concerned about the ship itself, these Eldar cared about one thing only; slaves. And therein, Jak thought, might lie a battle plan.

"Orders, Sir?" Ravenna asked.

This was the moment. He would need to commit himself to battle, or order the fleet to retreat to safety. There were still so many uncertainties. He could sense the eyes of his crew as they threw furtive glances at him from their posts. They did not know him or the type of captain he would be, and this was his first true test. The situation remained fluid. Would their Lord-Captain commit to a risky battle to win a valuable prize, or flee ignobly but pragmatically in the face of superior odds?

The seconds seemed to flow into one endless moment of anticipation, a frozen moment that felt both utterly new and also a moment that his whole life had been building towards.

"Vox Master, hail the transport captains and tell them to group together and watch their sterns. Hail the captains of the _Siren's Wail_ and _Portentia_. Have them abandon the transport ships and move on the given headings. And tell them to make it look lubberly."

* * *

Given the complex fleet combat that it about to occur, it would perhaps be more instructive to observe the impending battle from above, as it were. Although you might think that, in the vast ocean of space, a term like 'above' holds little meaning, take note of the fact that all the Imperial vessels align on each other, as if sailboats on a glassy ocean. There is no doubt in their minds of which way is up or down; Imperial ships sail to the galactic plane by millennia old tradition, and would never allow notions such as the limitless, frictionless void of three-dimensional space to put a halt to tradition.

In contrast, the Eldar vessels dip and weave through the full three dimensions like fish in the sea. Or perhaps in this case it is more accurate to describe them as sharks. Their form is akin to some type of aquatic scorpion. It is difficult to look at them getting the sense that whoever designed these ships was possessed of a significant fetish for knives. Blades are affixed to the prow and keel of each vessel and many of the major components have been sharped to vicious points as well.

It is also worth taking note of the great distances between the vessels. If you stepped back far enough to keep all the Imperial and Eldar ships in your field of vision, they would be as tiny pinpricks. These ships can perceive and destroy each other from distances of tens if not hundreds of thousands of kilometres. Naval battles are a delicate dance, the ships constantly moving forwards, circling at tightly as they can, trying to bring a target hundreds of thousands of kilometres away into an incredibly narrow firing arc. At this distance, void ships do not target their enemy, they target where the enemy will be by the time their munitions arrive. Imagine trying to shoot a target the size of needle that is moving faster than your eye can see. Now imagine that you are doing this whilst running in circles around it. If you can do that, you have something of the idea of the grim miraculous feats that these vessels try to achieve when they enter battle.

Pay attention, too, to the position of the ships and the direction that they move in. The four colony ships, left behind by their escorts, move forward in a tight line, forming up on for what scant protection they can provide one another. Meanwhile, the _Portentia_ has raced off to her starboard side at a clip, angling parallel to the distant sun as if attempting to make a clumsy escape. The _Siren's Wail_ has drifted to port, appearing almost aimless, or damaged. Meanwhile, the _Yolenna Symphony_ continues on towards the Explorator ship, and the bladed Eldar escort that is docking with her. She moves more cautiously now, her engines at half thrust, as if she is aware that she is being hunted.

There is no clear formation to the movements of the three warships; to an outside observer they might appear to have scattered in all directions, panicked and confused.

The two moving Eldar ships, on the other hand are employing a classic pincer maneuver, flanking the transport ships in a wide arc. They have each surrounded themselves with an inky cloud of energy, which that serves three purposes. Firstly it acts to cloud the sensors of other ships, the augers becoming scattered and confused at contact with it. Secondly, it hides the ship from the naked eye, for if indeed a ship did get close enough to view the Eldar vessel through their great plas-glass vista panes, they would be unable to distinguish its exact position and bearing through the dark, massing cloud of strange energy. Thirdly, if a ship can find its target through the sensor jamming, and is lucky enough to make a direct hit within that swirling morass, then the black cloud also acts as an energy sink, absorbing the shot in the same way that an Imperial vessel's voidshields would.

So, eleven ships in all, manoeuvring around a great plane of deep space. Fix all of that in your mind. And, if you can, now imagine the tiny dots of light flaring out like wings from both sides of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , as the Marauder squadrons are launched.

* * *

"Freak 3 to stern, bearing in on the sunward side, Sir."

It was one of the two escort ships, the one that had not docked with the Explorator vessel. She had appeared almost exactly where Jak had expected her, registering again on their sensor systems only as she approached firing range. He knew from his father's strenuous lessons on naval combat that the Eldar would almost always attack first with the auger gage if they could; bearing down from the sunward side was obviously an important advantage to them, but one that made them predictable.

The trick in naval battles was to flank an enemy that was constantly on the move, predicting not only where they would be but where they would be angled. The Eldar were experts at it.

As Jak had hoped, Freak 3 was bearing down on the huddled group of transport ships, unable to resist the easy pickings they represented, seemingly abandoned by the warships. Around the battle sphere, tactical displays collapsed as a million probable vectors were narrowed to only a few hundred. The second escort remained docked with the explorator vessel. The torture cruiser was still nowhere to be seen.

Jak's eyes darted restlessly across the streams of data as complex mathematical equations ran through the neural links and jostled with the battle instincts that his brain had come by honestly. His augmented mind ran through countless permutations of possible battle outcomes in response to each option that he was presented with.

"Helm, bring us about." He ordered. The neural circuitry of the Captain's Throne brought his exact calculations to the helmsmen in half the time it took to give the general order. The aged sailor at the helm gave an expert heave at the solid gold wheel of the ship's steering. He was attached to that wheel by a dozen thick metal cords, and his boots were welded to the deck. Come hell or high water, the helmsman would not leave his post till the battle was done.

And then, the wait. Half an hour of hushed action on the bridge and silence from the Command Throne as small red and blue lights slowly converged across the hololithic battle sphere. Half an hour for a captain to think and to second-guess himself, but no time left to change his orders, even if he wanted to. This was when the crew saw the measure of their Captain. Was he an impatient man, jerking free of his throne and pacing the deck? Was he a tartar, taking his nerves out on frightened subordinates?

Jak could remember the captains that he had served under and what he had learned from watching them in these moments. He steeled himself and sat with his chin resting on his hand, watching the tactical displays in silence.

Traditional captains, captains who Jak had served with and admired had few good words for the kind of 'fancy fighting' that Jak was attempting. Their beliefs, honed in millennia of battle against countless enemies, could be boiled down to, "Get in close, slow right down and fire your broadsides till there's only one of you still flying."

It was a tactic that Jak viewed with respect; it had served some of the Navy's finest captains well, but sadly these Eldar lacked broadsides and any incentive to give up their considerable advantage in speed. All Jak had by way of a broadside was the pitiful cannons of the _Siren's Wail_. She was firing them now, sending a steady barrage of shells across the void, not in the hope of hitting the ship designated Freak 3, but of occluding her possible vectors with obstacles, steadily narrowing her options for escape, should she choose to veer away from the transports.

Jak waited until the Eldar vessel was almost on top of the transports on the tactical display, before giving his order to Yolenna's Wing Commander, Likedraw Sokil.

"Commander Sokil, tell Petrel and Shearwater wings that they are cleared to begin their first run."

Freak 3 was moving in quickly, and the sensor officers were desperately collating data from the augers about her armaments as she did. The greatest danger with fighting xenos was underestimating or misunderstanding the nature of their weapon capabilities. From what they could discern through the static darkness of the ship's stealth shielding, she seemed to possess an energy weapon somewhat like the Yolenna's lance, able to fire with pinpoint precision across great ranges.

"She's not firing," Jak murmured.

Was this arrogance, or prudence? She seemed content to move in close, rather than risk that valuable cargo of slaves with a long range shot. She thought that she could afford such an action, safe in the knowledge that although both the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Yolenna Symphony_ were in range, she could easily dart away from the action before either could maneuver into a firing position.

However, the Eldar had not taken into account the welcoming gift that Jak had arranged. Speeding towards the escort ship were the bomber wing of the _Yolenna Symphony_. The aging Marauder bomber, built for the deep void as well as atmospheric runs, carried thousands of pounds worth of guided explosives. Petrel and Shearwater wings would be followed by Albatross and Fulmar to test the extent of Freak 3's defenses. Their vox chatter was piped aboard the ship, with updates from the Master of Ordnance, consulting with the Wing Commander.

"Visual confirmation of contact. Target looks like a great black blob, Sir. She's moving but there's no sign of the ship within. Targeting systems are all experiencing interference."

Jak spoke to the Wing Commander. "Have Petrel and Sherwater target the spread, bow to stern of the cloud itself. Put the targeting cogitators to bed and eyeball the shot, but I want our sensors tracking every missile fired."

An eerie silence fell over the bridge, punctuated only by the crackling commentary of the bomber pilots through the vox. Jak leant forward in his throne, chin on his hand, listening intently. Within a few minutes the tactical augers indicated that Freak 3's turret defenses had begun warding against the Yolenna's bombers. The vox chatter increased.

"Petrel One to Petrel King I've been hit, pulling out of the run."

"Petrel King to Yolenna, the target has opened fire, we're taking turret breaks but remain on target."

"Shearwater Six is down, repeat, Shearwater Six is down."

"All Petrels you are clear to launch missiles. Give 'em the Emperors regards."

Indicators flashed across the hololithics displays, indicating that all missiles had been launched. The augers were never wholly reliable in the midst of battle though, and Jak waited to hear confirmation from auspex officers.

"Captain, we're seeing multiple contacts with the Eldar's dark shield, but no indication that we've hit anything."

Jak exchanged glances with Ravenna, his jaw tight.

"There!" A sensor officer jabbed his finger at the display in front of him. "Shearwater Seven hit her! We have heat signals from the contact and we are tracking it through the cloud."

The word was relayed quickly up to Jak, who nodded to the Wing Commander.

"Commander Sokil, send in Albatross and Fulmar Wings, slave their targeting cogitators to the coordinates being sent to you and hit the devils with everything you have."

The second wave of bombers moved in. A lucky shot in the first run had found the escort ship amidst the swirling black morass of her energy shields. The Yolenna's sensor crews tracked and targeted that lucky shot and the Albatross and Fulmar wings fired every missiles they had at her.

Her shields were brought down and the footage beamed back from the bombers showed her true shape, the menacing hooked tail, the bladed prow. Sleek, dangerous, but vulnerable now. The bridge was too disciplined to cheer, but there was a renewed buzz of determined energy about the deck.

"Captain?" Jak's Master of the Vox was listening intently to something, as a group of sensor officers began to murmur and point. "Hail from the _Portentia_ , Sir. That Eldar torture cruiser has been spotted. It's bearing down directly on her."

* * *

Never divide your forces in the face of the enemy. The risk just isn't worth taking. But Jak had taken it anyway. Although their movements had appeared to be the panicky escape of desperate captains who were acting for themselves, Jak had deliberately told Mr Yurghan of the _Siren's Wail_ and Ms Severdore of the _Portentia_ how to manoeuvre their ships so that the expected flanking action of the Eldar would actually catch them triangulated by the three Imperial warships. They were spread out, but still able to provide some assistance to each other.

The Torture Cruiser dwarfed the Portentia. Her spine was a slender tube, made from overlapping plates of their xenos-forged metal. A long sweeping tail curved up and over the vessel like a sail, forming a rigid bladed tip. Two wings held underslung torpedo launchers and energy weapons shaped like vicious knives, and beneath her prow was a third knife; Jak could make out the razor-edged silhouette of a boarding assault boat on the hololith display.

The _Portentia_ reacted swiftly to the surprise appearance of the cruiser. Two great plumes of gas exploded from her prow as she launched torpedos. Each one was a hundred and fifty foot of self-propelled plasma-filled warhead. They honed in on the Eldar vessel with finally tuned targeting spirits. Blessed and sanctified, covered with prayer slips and messages for the enemy that burned off in the first moments of launching, the torpedos were the ultimate in shield-breaking firepower.

As the torpedos crossed the tens of thousands of kilometres between the two vessels, the Eldar cruiser moved to evade. She was more sluggish than her smaller compatriots, and approaching the Portentia from the warpward side, where her solar sail could not take advantage of the sun's energy to boost her speed. Still, Jak had to admit, she manoeuvred impeccably, almost looking like she could run a ring around the two torpedoes before they reached her. As they closed, darks streaks of energy sprang from the cruiser's defensive turrets.

The energy pulses merged and formed a black wreath around the first torpedo. It seemed to glow in the darkness for a moment as the Eldar weapon compressed around it, and then in an instant the torpedo detonated, its immense warhead exploding with a blinding flash. It was destroyed without even coming close to the Cruiser.

Jak watched silently as the second torpedo was dealt with in the same way. It was clear that the meagre salvo of the _Portentia_ , only two torpedos at a time, would have no chance of reaching the Eldar cruiser without being knocked down.

The cruiser came back onto its original heading, and the sensor officers duly informed Jak that it was firing its own torpedos now. They were scrambling to determine what the weapon was, but Jak could already recognise it from the energy signal and the visible silhouette. It was a strange spider-like missile, almost alive in its movements with spindly legs and a bladed proboscis. A leech torpedo, one of these dark Eldar's most effective weapons.

The legs pumped as it sped towards the _Portentia_ , which changed heading in a vain attempt to evade it. She had nowhere near the speed or agility of the Eldar vessels however, and was helpless to avoid the leech torpedo striking her stern. It bypassed her shields and sunk its narrow claws into her adamantium hull, just deep enough to grip on, as it's proboscis skimmed the surface of the ship, darting hungrily like a sharp-toothed bottom-feeder, searching out the energy signature of the ship's void shield and drawing deep.

The ship's shot past each other like jousting knights. There was a pause as the Torture Cruiser found itself between the _Portentia_ and the _Yolenna Symphony_ and Jak wondered if it would keep advancing; but the Eldar clearly did not want to catch themselves between the two Imperial ships and Freak 1 performed a neat turn, bright itself out wide to prepare for a second pass at the _Portentia_. It would be some time before the two ships would be in position for that, however, and this would give Jak the time he needed to carry out his plan.

* * *

"The Portentia reports that her shields are down, Sir. She's experiencing power fluctuations right across the ship. Attempting to return them to full power before the Cruiser strikes again."

"Very good, Vox, tell her to carry on. Sensors, a focused augury on Freak 1. Cap, cracks and guns if you please."

Jak's eyes were darting back and forth across data slates and projections, taking in the chaos of battle that raged across space. The Eldar vessel was hemmed in now, with the transport ships drifting across any escape to her starboard side. She turned to make her escape from the predicament that she had found herself in.

Jak tracked the ship as she changed course, willing her on. He could see the battle unfolding in his mind, imagine the thoughts of the enemy captain as the Eldar escort considered its options. The clearest route to safety for the escort would be to avoid the Siren's broadsides, she wouldn't know how feeble they were. That path would bring her past the bow of the symphony, but after that she'd feel that she had slipped free, and could safely bamboozle the Imperial vessels with her superior speed and turning once more.

The probable vectors were narrowing until the only paths left available would bring her across the Yolenna's firing arc. Just once. The escort ship wouldn't let itself be caught out the same way twice. But Jak was only planning on needing the one opportunity.

The information flooding into his head was pure mathematics, but his understanding of it was as instinctive as the way that he fired a gun. He was concerned with one simple question that had a horrendously complicated answer. In the speed of void battle, with a vastly more agile opponent, and a weapon that had to travel a vast distance, where would the Eldar ship be when Jak's shot arrived?

Jak's timing would need to be impeccable and the ship's shields would need to be down. This black-cloaked Eldar ship moved as though it could weave through the eye of the needle, and he would only have once chance to obliterate it.

The wait was agonising. It was all he could do not to wrench himself up from his throne, jerking the neuro-filaments free, and stalking the desk. The minutes ticked away as the graceful movements of the three ships brought every piece into play for the final, violent, crescendo.

So tight was the Eldar's turn as she came about that Jak almost missed his chance, but the helm had brought the Symphony's bow around just enough to target the Eldar escort with the ship's forward lance. The final piece of his plan were the four wings of the Yolenna's bomber contingents, holding off just out of range for this final run.

Reports were still coming through of the _Portentia's_ frantic battle for survival against the far larger cruiser.

"Freak 1 is in torpedo range. No torpedos launched."

" _Portentia_ has fired off another torpedo salvo." That would bring her down to three. She might not survive another run from the cruiser in any case. If it could bring her guns down, it might decide to strike her from the sky.

"Freak 1 has fired on the _Portentia_. Phantom lance." A long pause. " _Portentia_ has been hit. _Portentia_ reports dead in the sky, Sir. Engines down, Shields down."

"Commander Sokil, please scramble your fighter squadrons and designate them to assist the _Portentia_."

"Very good, Sir."

Jak glanced at the battle sphere. The fighters from the Yolenna would take some time to arrive but they might be able to save the _Portentia_ before the Torture Cruiser finished her final bombing run.

Jak saw this and took it all in at a glance before returning his focus on the Eldar vessel. She was passing the Siren's Wail now, the two ship's trading shots as they passed. The Eldar's phantom lance fired colossal beams of an unknown energy that the Siren's shield appeared to be withstanding. Estimates of time until her shield collapsed ran across the displays.

The Eldar escort moved past the Siren's Wail, coming closer. The torture cruiser rounded on the Portentia, preparing itself for the final strike that would destroy the ship. The Yolenna Symphony was slowly coming around to bring herself into a firing position for when the escort crossed her bow.

"Her shields are back up but we're holding targeting on the escort. Updating coordinates on the two four five. Broadcasting all bombing wings."

"Petrel and Shearwater commencing their second run, two thirds strength."

"All bombers, repeat, all bombers this is your Wing Commander. You are cleared to run the gauntlet."

"Focused Auguries back from the Cruiser, Sir. She appears to be prepping assault boats. They're trying to take the _Portentia_!"

"For'ard lance is primed and ready to fire at your order, Sir."

"Thank you Mr Stieg," Jak replied to the last. "Vox the gun deck to hold fire until the moment I give the order."

Everything would come down to timing now. He watched as the escort ship sailed into the Yolenna's forward firing arc. He watched the bombers chase her, blinking indicators on the screens showing him the demise of each recklessly dashing bomber crew that failed to evade the Eldar's counter fire. The Siren's shields had held and she had worn off to starboard, limping away from the confrontation.

"Petrel King to Yolenna. Shields are down. I repeat, Freak 3's shields are down."

"Fire the forward lance!" Jak yelled. The ship shuddered as the immense crystalline cylinder of the ship's lance raged internally with electrical energy, focused by a thousand precisely placed mirrors into a single beam that silently crossed the void of space and scrimshawed the exposed starboard flank of the escort.

Imperial Ships were covered in metres of thick adamantium plating so that even if their shields failed they could withstand immense levels of fire. But the sophisticated, deadly ships of the various Eldar fleets relied on their agility for most of their defence. Once their shields were taken down they were incredibly vulnerable, and one good strike from the Yolenna's lance speared deep into her innards.

There was almost silence on the deck, as the auspex officers fretted over their confirmation rituals before giving the nod to the Master of Etherics.

"Target is dead in the sky, Sir. We've crippled her."

There was no cheer. Everyone knew the job was not done yet. Jak was barking orders like a man possessed. He could sense victory now, the advantage had swung his way decisively, but the battle was far from over.

"Vox, have the _Siren's Wail_ finish the job on the escort. Sensors I want an update on what the second escort is doing, don't let us forget she's there. Commander I want to hear from your Fury wings, let's bring up their sphere. Helm bring us about, quick turn to the six, and centre us on the Cruiser."

Four voices called out at once, with feeling.

"Aye, Sir!"

* * *

The _Portentia_ waited in the void like a sitting duck, desperately trying to bring her machine spirits back to working order as the Torture Cruiser prepared for one final pass. She'd barely been damaged in the fighting, the Eldar had so effectively negated her weapons, shields and engines that they appeared to think it unnecessary to risk the valuable cargo of slaves aboard with further fire. They were coming in close for a boarding run.

"Tell the _Portentia_ to save her torpedos," Jak ordered as they made their approach. The Eldar would easily knock down her salvo, and Jak didn't want to waste the ordnance. He had faith in his fighter wings arriving in time to fend off the boarding parties

The underslung assault boat, curved to a wicked edge, had detached from the cruiser and made for the Portentia. As it travelled, it split smoothly into four separate vessels, each with it's own guidance system. They looked like spikes, built to drive home into the thick shell of the ship's armour and spill forth dozens of deadly Kabalite warriors.

But Jak could see what the Eldar could not. In the blind sport for the Eldar vessel, created by the _Portentia_ 's profile, the ships of the Yolenna's fighter/interceptor wings were speeding towards the ailing _Portentia_. Jak could imagine the surprise the Eldar would experience as they would catch the first glimpse of the swarm bursting over and under the Portentia.

"Raptor King to all Raptors, we have four bogeys inbound and are cleared to engage. Repeat you are clear to engage. Happy Hunting."

The battle was tracked across a smaller battle sphere. Their lascannons cut the assault boats to shreds mere minutes before they could dock with the Portentia.

" _Portentia_ reports shields back on line, Sir!" Just in time, as the debris from the destruction of the assault boats could still prove deadly without a ship's shielding to protect against it.

There was a cheer on the bridge, the first great cheer from this disciplined group, as they watched their fighter pilots destroy the assault boats. Without the boarding party in play, there would be now be time for the Yolenna to move in to the defence of the _Portentia_.

"Captain, the wings will need to return to refuel before Freak 1 is in short range."

"Keep them in the air a little longer Mr Sokil." Jak wanted to press his advantage. He sensed that the Torture Cruiser was on the verge of retreat and he wanted to show no weakness to her now.

As they approached, Jak flicked a glance at the sensor readings around the explorator vessel. She would have been boarded now, the Eldar crew running rampart through her decks, attempting to take as many slaves on board at they could before being forced into flight. They had taken a great risk, not involving themselves in the fleet action, and it had not paid off. They would not be able to come to the aid of their larger compatriot as she faced the ordnance of three warships.

"Captain! Freak 1 is disengaging."

Jak watched her go with a thin smile. Such was the nature of the slaver scum. Cowardice would win out over greed when the odds shifted against them. They wanted plunder and captives, not a fight. The Torture Cruiser had moved to completely abandon her remaining escort, which still lay docked with the explorator vessel.

"Helm," Jak said with satisfaction, "set us on a course for _Vonaznaniya-17.8_."

* * *

Whilst battles raged both in the void and aboard her ship, Maternin Shyendi, Junior Rune Priest of the Animus Cogitatus, had secluded herself in the communications bay and was frantically preparing the final data logs of the _Vonaznaniya-17.8_ for transmission. The explorators carried no Astropath to pass messages through the void, but radio waves would do just as well, given enough time, and in any case the data was too complex to be trusted to any psyker.

When Maternin was done, the last results of fives years worth of data would be transmitted into the void, to be one day picked up by a Forge World or Explorator vessel, decoded and added to the vast knowledge repositories of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the tech priests of Mars. The ship was doomed, but her science would survive. Every member of the crew had been a follower of the Omnissiah and willing to make that sacrifice without a second thought.

They had known the danger of roaming so deep into unpatrolled space, but such was the nature of their mission that the risk had been necessary.

When the ship had been boarded, the captain had taken Maternin personally to this secure transmission room, thrown her in with a single las-pistol and instructions to secure the final data transmission and then sealed the blast doors. When the enemy had reached them, the captain had defended those doors to her last, with chainsword and bolter. From the other side of the heavy doors, Maternin has heard the shots fired and the whirring clash of swords.

Now all she heard was screaming.

These Kabalite Eldar seemed to like to take their time with captives. Maternin reminded herself that every second the captain distracted the enemy with her ongoing survival was a second long to secure and transmit their data. She blocked the screams from her mind as she worked, but one of her mecha-dendrites anxiously stroked the hydraulic-wrench at her side. It was a heavy tool, and could do some significant damage if hefted.

Maternin carried little augmentation. He face was free of mask or circuitry, as befitted her junior status, but her spine was grafted with three slender mecha-dendrites, mechanical tentacles that emanated through her robes and snaked gracefully over her shoulders. When a particularly loud explosion rocked the whole ship, one dendrite instinctively gripped and hefted the wrench. The segmented carapace flared open in a half dozen places, blue micro-thrusters glowing brightly beneath the armoured shell as they worked to balance the weight of the weapon.

Maternin's fingers moved faster over the data slate. The transmission was nearly ready to send, she only needed a little more time. But the screaming had stopped.

The vox clicked on with a brief crackle of static. Bizarrely, amidst all the fear and urgency, Maternin found herself irked at the noise. That vox box really should have been repaired days ago, that static was unnecessary, someone had been shirking their duty to the ship.

The voice that came over the vox was not her captain's. It was sinister and high, the playful singsong of a deranged predator speaking clumsy Gothic.

"Hello little red hood. Are you in there? Please let us in. Your friend screamed and screamed but would not give us the passcode. We would very much like to see what is inside."

Maternin ignored them. She hit the button to begin the final compilation so that the completed data package could be sent. A timer on the data slate started to count down from thirty seconds.

More explosions across the ship. She wondered if any of the crew were managing to stage a fight back. If the Eldar were hoping to take captives they would be sorely disappointed. Most of the crew contained fail-safe self-destruction ordnance within their augmentations in case of capture. Maternin hoped that they had taken many of the enemy with them.

Twenty five seconds until completion.

"Oh, look at this." The vox-caster crackled again. "Now that I look at it I think we can work out this lock ourselves." The voice rose is high-childlike triumph. "We will be able to play after all. How wonderful for you."

Maternin spun around and lashed out with the wrench and smashed the vox-caster. The creature's voice went mercifully silent.

Fifteen more seconds. Her eyes on the door, Maternin slipped one hand behind herself and rested it on the transmit button. In her other hand she clutched her las-pistol tightly.

Ten seconds. The door slid open. Not enough time.

With a groan of frustration Maternin hefted the wrench and the las-pistol. The rest of the ship's crew would all be dead by now, the lucky ones by their own hand. But she couldn't die until the task had been completed. Just a few more seconds was all she needed to see their years of data and discovery sent safely.

A large figure, clad entirely in black slipped into the room, taking up the whole of the doorway **.** It rose at least three feet above Maternin, at least a foot and a half of that being a matte black helm that completely covered the xenos' face. Indeed blades were a sartorial theme across all of its sleekly armoured form. Blades at the joints, blades along the wrists, blade springing from the barrel of that gun that it wielded. The weapon was unfamiliar to Maternin, and even in her fear she found herself examining its precise engineering, hoping to gauge some sense of how it operated. She raised her wrench in one mecha-dendrite, the other two hovered over her shoulder in what she hoped was a menacing pose. Just a few more seconds. She just needed to make the alien hesitate for a few seconds.

The Eldar gave a hiss of triumph through the mask of its helm, and took a step towards Maternin.

Behind her, the ostentatiously prim 'ping' of the data cogitators indicated that the packet had compiled securely. With a small exhalation of relief she pressed the send button and pointed her pistol at her head. Her finger rested on the trigger. The Eldar hesitated.

Some small movement behind the Eldar made Maternin hold back from firing. The creature made a soft 'whuff' of pain and the hissing blade of a power cutlass suddenly burst forth from between its ribs. The Eldar looked down, managing despite its masked face, to radiate complete surprise.

With a boneless weight it slumped forward. The blade withdrew and the xenos fell to the floor. Standing behind, holding the blood stained cutlass was a large, grinning man, long haired, panting slightly and glistening with sweat.

The man held out his free hand with a small flourish. "Jakobian Velasquez at your service," he said. "And to the rescue, more to the point. The pleasure's all yours, I'm sure."


	8. Part 2- Chapter 6

**Chapter 2**

A prize!

Jak had taken his first prize ship, the _Vonaznaniya-17.8._ The small research ship that had once belonged to the Explorator fleets of the Adeptus Mechanicus was now his by right of capture, and would be significant coin back in civilized space.

The Explorator vessel had received only minimal damage in its encounter with the Eldar slavers, although the same could not be said for her crew, which had been all but wiped out. She could not fly with her crew gone –for no one could operate an Explorator ship apart from priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus and Jak was reluctant to spare even a skeletal crew- but the _Siren's Wail_ would be able to tow her until they found a suitable forge world. There, they would be able to sell her back to the Adeptus Mechanicus for a princely sum.

The ship was rightfully a prize; she had been boarded by the enemy and lost her captain and over two thirds of her crew, which was the requisite for her to be designated a prize ship under Imperial law. If more than a third of the crew had been alive when Jak had cut the ship out then it would have been considered a rescue mission, and he would have lost any rights to claim her. Whether or not this had influenced Jak's decision-making, in drawing the Eldar ships into battle rather than moving immediately to the Explorators' aid, was a question that he would lock away in a small, dark, quiet part of himself, to take to his grave.

He'd chosen the armsmens' mess as an ideal place to ignore such questions and celebrate his victory. Amid the raucousness of the armsmen, Jak was able to lose himself in the revelry, as well as give the appearance of attending to the conclusion of his interrupted meeting with the Keeper of the Purse and Master of the Stores. His Keeper had a few things to say on naval tactics as well.

"And so you see, any fleet action that involves the use of the launch bays naturally incurs a significant cost, not only in lost or damaged ships but also in wear and tear on the bays themselves. At last count we are down 11 bombers, including those that are beyond repair until we encounter a forge world, but the cost in re-establishing and resourcing the launch bays will be far greater in the long term."

Jak nodded along with his Keeper of the Purse, but his attention was with the rowdy celebrations as all around him his armsmen toasted their extra grog rations to the successful capture of the _Vonaznaniya-17.8_ , not to mention the defeat of three despicable xenos ships without losing one of their own. The Butcher's Bill on the cutting out of the exploratory vessel had been mild. A fifth of the squadron lost, but some of those could likely be repaired once they returned to civilized space. A few dozen casualties in the boarding, but the last Eldar ship had run after the torture ship had fled, leaving only a few Kabalite warriors behind who had been too caught up in their depraved piracy to escape. The boarding party had overwhelmed them in quick time.

Two Eldar ships chased off, one destroyed. Not a bad day's work at all for the new Lord-Captain.

"Look at that, will you?" Jak nudged the Master of the Stores and pointed. Borjean had unfolded a slim butterfly knife from some unknown recess in his jacket and was performing tricks with it. The armsmen around him whooped and hollered as the knife spun between his fingers, the whiling blade disappearing up his sleeve and out again. For his capper, Borjean drunk casually from his flask as the knife became a blur in his fingers. The mug slammed down on the bar at the same time as the knife flicked safely back into its folded shell.

The gathered crew cheered, but Borjean's voice was louder than all of them as he raised his mug high.

"Here's to Captain Velasquez!" Borjean called out. "Saviour of the red robes!"

Those around lifted their cups and roared their approval. Jak, bathing in their adulation, raised his own mug.

"Gentlemen," he said, turning back to the Keeper and the Master, "don't worry too much about the price of business. We just took a Mechanicus vessel. As soon as we tow that thing back to a Forge World, they'll pay us enough to fund this voyage and the next. Anything we take now is profit." He stood up, placing his big hands on both the men's shoulder. "Enjoy the moment."

Across the room he saw Garian, alone. He moved to join the Master at Arms. As he approached, he realised that his former mentor was not looking well. His good eye was red rimmed, and his face hung even lower than usual, grey and sallow.

"You shouldn't be in here." Garian growled as Jak took a seat next to him.

"Where should I be?" Jak, asked, forcing casual interest into his voice. In the few days that he had been Lord-Captain of the ship he had already taking a dislike to men talking to him as freely as if he were still a mere Sergeant.

Sensing that he had crossed a line, Garian shifted in closer, and his tone was almost conciliatory. He gripped Jak by the elbow. "You shouldn't be celebrating here, in the mess. You'll erode your authority, whether you mean to or not. You're their captain now, not their mate. You can't be happy Jak of the mess hall. You can't be that close to them."

Jak tugged his arm away. He could smell the stink of alcohol on Garian's breath. He was not used to the old man drinking. Had the boarding run rattled him?

"You know the funny thing about being Captain Mr Sykarin? I can be whoever the bloody hell I want."

He stood up and turned away from his former mentor, but the pleasure of the moment was gone. Growling, he jerked his head at Borjean to follow him and stalked out of the Armsmen's mess.

* * *

The ship's hospital was filled with the sounds of the injured and dying, groaning in pain. These were the boarding parties of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , who had been cruelly maimed by the fletchetted, poisoned weapons of the Eldar slavers who had besieged her crew.

Maternin tried to ignore the sounds. She burrowed herself down against the hard metal bunk, and closed her eyes. She could feel the tendrils of her mechadendrites coiled beneath her, pressed between her back and the bed. Once, not that long ago, when the mechanical augmentations had been new, such a sensation would have been uncomfortable, even painful. Now she gave it no more thought than she did the sensation of her shoulder blades against the thin mattress. They were just another point of contact, another place where her body met the world.

She had been transferred to the hospital almost immediately after her rescue, and as there seemed to be no rush for anyone to speak with her nor answer her calls for information, she had been content to lie in silence, trying to come to terms with the enormity of the tragedy that had so pitilessly swept through her life. The horrors of the last few hours seemed to play on an endless loop: the sudden arrival of the vicious Eldar fleet, the crippling of her vessel, the violent static screams of her crewmates as the Eldar boarded.

Her harrowing reverie was interrupted when she sensed the presence of another, looming over her. She opened her eyes and found her vision obstructed by the slack features of a servitor.

"Are you lacking in comfort, patient?" The servitor asked, in its solemn monotone. Maternin had never heard a servitor ask a question like this. Before she could summon an answer the servitor had yanked her into a sitting position, and then punched her pillow with its slab-like fist, three times, its arm moving so fast that it blurred.

"You are now comforted. I have been Merry Servant #7. Thank me and the interaction is complete."

"Thank? Uh, thank you."

"This is sufficient."

The servitor left, and was replaced by a chirugeon, a wrinkled yellow old man whose augmentations looked cheap and on the verge of failing. A series of cog squeaked lethargically alongside his cheek as he spoke.

"Apologies for Merry Servant 7. He thinks that he's people but his bedside manner is still rather abrupt. How are you feeling young Omnissian?"

"My ship, Sir, my crew," she burbled, desperately. "Do you have any news? How many survived? Please, Sir, no one has told me anything."

"There will be time for that. But you, how do you feel? And please, none of this Omnissian nonsense about metal feeling no pain, I've got more metal in me than you do and I ache all the bloody time."

"I feel… I feel fine, Sir. I was not injured in the attack."

"No." He glanced down at a data-slate he was holding. "There are no signs of great hurt, thank the God-Emperor. We'll hold you a time for the quarantine, but you should be up and about soon."

"Please, Sir. My crew. Where are the other survivors?"  
The chirugeon's face fell. He opened his mouth, but paused as a new figure stepped into view.

A Magos, the ship's Enginseer Primaris. His long red robes were inscribed with his rank and the various brotherhoods in which he held a membership. Only a fellow Adeptus Mechanicus would be able to divine their meaning, but to all those who followed the Omnissiah they made it very clear that this was the man who ruled the ship, who ensured that her machine spirits were kept free from corruption and that her components were a blessing to the Machine God.

The chief chirugeon stepped aside deferentially as the Enginseer leaned over her. She could see the shifting focus within the green glowing eyes in his facemask, the lenses rotating as he studied her. His first words, when they came, were a hiss of binary.

"Experimentor."

Lingua Technica was a language of stark efficiency, with no room for the messy ambiguities of tone or irony. The disgust in the Enginseer's voice was built right into the ones and zeros.

Maternin said nothing, but she willed herself to gaze back at the empty, expressionless eyes. She wore no mask of her own, she had not earned that right, and she knew that her emotions were naked as a child's across her face.

The Enginseer Primaris held up a data slate. Maternin recognised it as belonging to her ship.

"Genitari experimentors. Hereteks. You were conducting unsanctioned blasphemies."

"No!" Maternin insisted, horrified at such a wild accusation. "We had sanction from the Forge World Daidala. We had the blessings of the _

"Enough," the Enginseer hissed. "What was your role aboard this vessel?"

"Sir, I was a Rune Priestess of the Animus, Lexmechanic of the Fifteenth Tier and Cogitation Confessor of-

"Not possible. No consort of experimentation could hold such titles. You will be stripped of your false rank." As he spoke, a small blowtorch flickered to life, a digit attachment amongst many on his augmented limb. He ran it down the sleeve of her robe. She watched as the threads charred and curled, the finely embroidered symbols of rank being neatly burned away. The chief chirugeon watched, face blank.

"You are still young and there is yet time to atone for the actions of your former crewmates. You will serve amongst this vessel as a minor savant. In time and with service to the Omnissiah, you may find your crimes forgiven."

Maternin was too tired, too horrified to fight. She slumped back against the hard mattress. "I will serve in whatever way you believe best glorifies this vessel, my Lord."

"Do you know the 300 liturgies of the sump pump? If not, you will learn."

"No, my Lord, I mean yes. I know them. 'Rejoice for today we cleanse the-

"I do not need to hear a recitation" He held up a hand of segmented metal. "You will serve. You will be watched. If you are seen to have put aside the heresies of your vessel, you will be redeemed."

The chirugeon remained after the Enginseer Primaris had stalked away, looking down at Maternin with some concern. She felt battered by a wave of exhaustion, but she still lacked crucial information.

"Please. Were there any other survivors of my vessel? Any?"

"None. I'm sorry child. The Captain herself died just outside the doorway to the room they found you in. She must have fought very hard to protect you."

"Yes," Maternin said quietly, closing her eyes, sinking into the bleak fatigue, losing herself in it. From somewhere far away she caught the faintest whisper of the chirugeon's voice.

"Did you know the captain well?"

"She was my mother."

* * *

"Borjean are you getting drunk?"

"No, Sir, I'm sobering up, but it's been a while so I'm taking it in stages."

Jak grunted to stop himself from laughing as Borjean slipped his flask away. Borjean followed him everywhere aboard the ship now, a stumbling, griping, alcohol-fuelled shadow. It had been one of his first acts as Lord-Captain, to promote the man to head of his personal guard. With sabotage and assassination aboard the fleet, Jak wanted men he knew and trusted close to him wherever possible, although this did come with its own difficulties.

"You would never have spoken to my father that way," he observed.

"Your father never paid for my round." Borjean retorted. Jak smiled all the way back to his cabin.

In the aftermath of the ship's entry into the Demetrius system, and subsequent battle, there was a great deal of administrative work to be done and meetings for Jak to preside over. But few were as important as the next, between the Lord-Captain and the ship's Astropath Transcendent, Rodhati Halksis.

One of the first tasks of a void ship upon translating in from the warp was to thoroughly scan the local region of space. The sensor teams of the augur and auspex arrays looked for energy signals in real space, picking up signs of ships and the constant tides of vox signals. At the same time, the ship's astropathic choir plumbed the depths of the void for the susurrus of psykers, searching for long range communications across Imperial psychic channels.

An astropathic chorus could send a message far faster, and over astronomically greater distances than vox waves could. If the ships of the Imperial navy kept the trade arteries of the Empire open, it was the countless mutant Astropaths that kept the Empire communicating.

Nothing had been heard from the Demetrius system in over a thousand years, but this was not unusual with lost colonies. Astropaths were a gift from the Empire and far flung colonies lacked the means to produce their own, such a process requiring a visit to Holy Terra for a young psyker to be 'soul bound' to the Emperor.

So, it had been some surprise to Jak to receive this request for a meeting from Halksis. The AT would not need to meet unless he had picked up some astropathic contact in the void.

It was an even greater surprise to see that he had not come alone, but was being followed, shepherded even, by Archdeacon Benetor. A gleam of triumph shone dangerously in the decrepit old priest's eye. Whilst Jak had been leading the fleet to battle, the Archdeacon had clearly been busy himself.

"What news do you have, gentleman?" Jak asked, sitting on his desk rather than behind it. For some reason, when he was around the Archdeacon he wanted the ability to move freely and quickly.

"You have been searching on the wrong frequencies Velasquez," crowed Benetor. "I had to set your mutant straight."

Jak looked to Halksis, waiting for an explanation. The old man had always struck him as elegant and dignified, with a noble ramrod-straight bearing only slightly marred by the unearthly grace of his movements and the cloudy grey orbs that had once been his eyes. He was able to communicate, without a word, the depths of his dissatisfaction with the Archdeacon's antics. Jak had always wondered if this was an astropathic ability, to communicate so precisely just through his bearing. Perhaps he just put the notion directly into Jak's mind?

"We have searched for word from the Demetrius system on ancient frequencies, my Lord-Captain, as would have been used when the system was first settled. The Archdeacon, in his desire to assist, suggested that we project across newer frequencies."

 _In his bloody-minded impatience and refusal not to interfere_ , Jak thought but did not say out loud. The Astropath gave the slightest nod, to indicate that he knew exactly what his Captain was thinking. Out loud, Jak stated the obvious.

"You received a message?"

"We did my Lord."

"He will not tell me what they have communicated. Such impertinence in a mutant servant speaks poorly of his master, Velasquez."

Jak glanced at Borjean. The old guard was flicking his knife in and out of shell, glancing questioningly at him, as if waiting for permission. Jak couldn't help but smile. But he could afford a conciliatory tone at this point in the voyage.

"The Archdeacon is in command of the colonists. He has a right to hear what the first colony has to tell us," he said aloud, but internally He consciously radiated gratitude at the Astropath for delaying, hoping that the message was communicated mentally. "Please AT. Communicate your message for the Archdeacon now."

The Astropath closed his blind eyes and took a deep breath. The voice that came from him when he spoke was different; deeper, and echoing as if coming from a far off place. There was a feminine nuance to it, but with multiple overtones, as if a hundred different variations of a voice were speaking in perfect unison.

"Her Serene Highness, Empress Hermia, 11th of her name, Solar Governor and Beloved ruler of three worlds, bids you welcome. She looks forward to meeting with Lord-Captain Jakobian Velasquez and Archdeacon Torsmond Benetor. She offers you full freedom of movement within the system and an invitation to dock at her personal orbital ports on our capitol world. The Empress and her people bid you welcome in our minds and hearts to the Lysander System."

Jak at least, had been somewhat prepared for this, but the Archdeacon was red-faced in indignant surprise.

"Empress? Solar Governor? _Lysander_ system?"

"It sounds like these backwater cave people have been busier than you expected, Archdeacon."

"You seem unsurprised Velasquez. Did you know about this?"

"How could I? No, I didn't realise that things had gone this far, but the deep scans did show vox signals coming from three planets, including the two that you are supposed to be setting your people down on. And there are energy signals from far more ships than should be expected given the projected trajectory of the colony's progress. In short, Archdeacon, the kids seem to have grown up quickly."

"They have committed blasphemy upon blasphemy!" Benetor shouted. "Colonised planets without permission. Declaring themselves a solar Empire. _Changing the system's name."_

"Orks sleeping with Eldar! Warp vortices in the latrines!"

"You mock me? What do you intend to do about this dishonour to our Emperor and our faith?"

"Well, I'm inclined to start by accepting her invitation. Look Archdeacon," Jak stood up from the desk and stood before the old man. "It's nothing to worry about. These people haven't seen a warship in over a thousand years. We'll swoop in, intimidate the locals, charm the Queen till she's eating out of your hand and drop your colonists off safe and sound. The planets will be all set up and waiting for you and you'll have even more people to order around. This is a victory for you."

Benetor spluttered and raged, but Jak could tell that his point had hit home. The old man was already working out how to turn things to his advantage. Jak nodded to Halksis.

"Thank you AT. Please return to the choir and tell the Queen we accept her invitation and look forward to welcoming her back to the bosom of the Empire, or whatever it is you're supposed to tell people in these situations."

Jak didn't dismiss Benetor. He didn't think that the Archdeacon's ego could handle it at this point. Instead he turned with a sigh to look at the data slate on his desk and the long line of meetings still awaiting him.

* * *

The Ship's Master, Jeena Beru, was a wiry old sailor with a vulture's stoop and a gaze of perpetually weary scepticism. The tone of her voice did not change once as she relayed her observations of the Siren's efforts to secure the Explorator ship.

The _Vonaznaniya-17.8_ had been damaged in their battle against the Eldar slavers, and with only one member of her crew surviving, Jak had thought it better to tow her, rather than spare valuable tech priests from his own ships. The _Siren's Wail_ possessed towing grav plates, that could be attached to the Explorator ship via long tethers, and then winched in until the ship was drawn in beneath the Siren like a fish gripped in the talons of a bird of prey.

A simple exercise, or at least Jak had hoped it would be. However the hawsers had not been faked down correctly after their last use and a team had needed to go deep into the underdecks to clear the ancient capstans. There they had faced attack by mutants, a common risk in the underdecks of any great ship, but this had been an unusually vicious and focused attack, as if the mutant tribes were being spurred on by some driving force.

"The Twistcatcher aboard the _Siren's Wail_ is dead," Ms Beru reported. "Twenty of the crew were lost as well, but the prize had been made fast and we are ready to travel again."

"Very good. Inform Mr Yurghan that he is free to appoint another Twistcatcher as he sees fit."

Beru saluted and left. Next, Borjean brought in a team of six armsmen. His personal selections for Jak's bodyguard stood at attention in the centre of the great-cabin.

"All experts in marksmanship, close quarters combat, heavy weapons, heavier weapons, anti-psyker techniques, emergency narthecium use, crowd control, Sentinel and guncutter piloting, as well as standing around in shiny outfits all day not getting bored."

"Can they cook as well?" Jak asked cocking an eyebrow at Borjean.

At that, Jestross poked his head out of the side galley, and gave a disgruntled growl. To their credit, none of Jak's new guard showed any signs of discomfit at the close proximity of the xenos, although by now he was a familiar sight to most Yolennas. The late Admiral Velasquez had installed him in the captain's galley, both because this was such a menial position that it appeased the ship's confessors and because with his advanced sense of taste and smell, Jestross had turned out to be the best chef the _Yolenna's Symphony_ had ever had, if somewhat touchy about his territory.

Ignoring Jestross, Jak addressed the armsmen.

"Gentlemen, you are the first personal guards I've ever had. I've been told that it's your duty to put yourselves between potential deadly forces and myself. Well I can't say that I like that. I put myself in the path of a good many deadly forces and I don't intend to stop now that I'm captain. I can't say that I'm comfortable with one of you good people taking a shot that was intended for me. It seems to me that just means one of you getting punished any time it looks like I might be slow to duck."

He realised that this wasn't a particularly coherent or inspirational speech and lamely tried to wrap it up.

"So if we're in any trouble, by all means I want you there besides me, but no taking a slug for me or anything of that nature. Understand?"

The men and women of the guard exchanged covert glances. None were sure of what they were supposed to say. It was Borjean who stepped forward and barked.

"Guards, you will serve the Lord-Captain with your lives, you will protect him every moment of every day from now until your deaths and when you die it will be by laying down your lives for his! Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir!" They chorused, with obvious relief.

"Good, Sir?" He looked to Jak, who shook his head. "Jev, Rakon, you have the door. The rest of you are dismissed."

Jestross gave a clacking laugh at their disappearing backs and returned to his galley. Jak sat down at his desk, fingers to his temple.

"Borjean, I believe you just gave them the exact opposite of the instructions that I just did."

"Oh no Sir, would never contradict your orders. Just gave them some clarity. They're guards, they like things simple. And you've got gold on your shoulder now, whether you like it or not. That's just the way of things."

"I don't like men dying for me."

"Then pack it in and you, me and Jestross can go become mercenaries somewhere and don't think I wouldn't if you asked. But if you're going to be captain then the bodyguard comes with it. You wouldn't think twice about sending them into battle to protect the ship. Well, now _you're_ the ship. At least as far as they're concerned."

"Thank you, Borjean. You're dismissed."

After Borjean came Ravenna, with a report from the bridge.

"We're back on course?"

"Yes Sir. The fleet is back in column and on route to Demetrius III."

Jak grinned wryly.

"You didn't hear? The planet is called Lysander III now."

"I'd prefer to remain calling it by the name that's on the Letter of Marque, Sir. The Archdeacon will soon have it back to being the Demetrius System and following in the Emperor's light again."

Jak swivelled thoughtfully in his seat.

"No doubt, no doubt," he mused.

"Lord-Captain. May I speak freely, Sir?"

Sensing a tone in her voice, Jak spun around and threw his feet up on his father's ancient wooden desk, looking up at the stern, faintly scarred face of his First Officer.

"Go ahead XO."

"Your father would have supervised the fixing of the tow in person. It's a delicate operation and the Explorator ship is a valuable prize."

"You know, Ms Al Dessi, you're not the first person today to tell me how my father would have done things. Do I need to remind people that I'm not my father?"

Al Dessi did not look at Jak. True to her naval roots, she stood to attention and stared straight ahead, gazed fixed somewhere above Jak's head at the empty void view through the vista port.

"No Sir."

"Good. Because my father is dead. Gone. Sitting at the Emperor's side. And we still don't know who killed him, do we?"

"No Sir."

"So, how goes your investigation?"

Ravenna hesitated. She still held herself at attention, but she looked as uncomfortable as Jak had ever seen her look.

"Captain," she said, carefully. "Given the suspicion that has fallen on you at this time, I wonder if my sharing details of the investigation into your father's assassination might not appear to an outside observer as lacking impartiality."

Jak slid his boots off the table and leant forward.

"I couldn't give a damn about the appearance, XO. I want to know who killed my father, not win the prize for fairest Captain in Calixis. I want a bloody name and then I want an execution."

"I can't claim to be close to either of those things. The investigation has hit a dead end. I'm no spymaster, Sir, or Inquisition agent. I've done my best but we have very little information and a great many people on board ship. I need to narrow the field down to likely suspects, those with motive, means and opportunity.

"Where are you with that?"

Ravenna began ticking items off on her finger as she spoke, her melodiously officious voice well suited to making lists.

"One, Mr Sykarin, having served with your father longer than anyone else, has assisted me in making a list of everybody aboard the Yolenna Symphony who might have sound reason to hold a grudge against your father. Apart from his sons, there are one hundred and thirty three individuals who may have had reason to want him dead. They may have committed the act themselves or enlisted another agent in the task.

Two, the assassin's gun was not from the ship's armoury and did not appear to have originated on the fleet's black market. Mr Sykarin has ordered his men to scour the ship, but it is unlikely that the gun will ever be found, so we cannot use that to trace the assassin.

Three, we have no clear images of the individual's face. Although there was no overt tampering with the ship's internal auspex systems, the assassin appears to have had knowledge of their placement and how to avoid them. The lumens on the command deck were dimmed to help mask their approach and exit. This would take petty-officer level cogitation clearance; however the servitor logs were cleared, so we do not know who ordered the change."

Jak sighed. "So, where to next?"

"Now that we are clear of the Warp, I can begin interviewing people. However, without evidence and with a long list of possible suspects, I doubt that I will be able to force a confession from anyone." She considered this. "A genuine confession that is."

"I'm sure that you will do your best. We have a few weeks before we arrive on Lysander III. But there is an issue once we do arrive. The Queen has offered us the use of her fully operational orbital docks"

"Yes, Sir."

"Your thoughts?"

"The one thing we know for certain is that our assassin is still aboard the ship. Once we arrive, between the dockyards and the resupply, with hundreds of crew moving between our ships and the dock…" She trailed off.

"My thoughts as well. However, we can't avoid the resupply, we need it to make it home without turning cannibal. If you have a suspect by the time that we reach Lysander III, we will hold them in custody until a trial can be held in Calixis. I would like to be able to demonstrate to my siblings that I made some effort to bring my father's killer to justice. If not," he shrugged. "We'll deal with that battle when we come to it."

"Yes Sir."

With Ravenna gone, Jak was left alone again. The guards were outside his door. He could hear Jestross in the captain's galley. Jak's appetite was raging, he realised, but something was sitting uncomfortably with him.

Having spoken aloud the fact that he would need to face his siblings one day in the near future, it was starting to feel very real. The captured Explorator ship was a valuable prize, but it would not be enough to earn Jak a Warrant of Trade, which he would need to have any hope of retaining his ships. No, something else would be needed before the end of this voyage.

Somewhere out there lay his salvation, he knew. Somewhere out there lay the chance for greatness. The galaxy was a place of endless danger and opportunity. It would surely provide.

* * *

Her quarantine period over, Maternin was given a fresh set of red robes and discharged. The ship's hospital had quietened down considerably since her arrival, many of the patients having been drugged to sleep or given their final peace.

Maternin found herself watching the chirugeon's fingernails scratch harshly at the dry skin of his bald scalp as he filled out the discharge parchments. He spoke, conversationally, not looking up as he wrote.

"Might I ask, savant, what a Genitari is? I've never heard the word before."

"You speak binary," Maternin said in surprise. He had understood the whole of the conversation between herself and the Enginseer Primaris.

The Chief Chirugeon glanced up. "A fifth of my patients and half my assistants come from the Adeptus Mechanicus. I've found it useful to pick up a little of the Lingua Technica over the years. But the term Genitari is new to me."

Maternin could not meet his eye. "It is nothing of import. A technical term."

"I see. Well," he looked back down at his papers. "Well thank you for the illumination. Everything is in order here; You are to report to me if you feel any illness of any kind, but I believe you are one of the few who can say that you met the Eldar and escaped unscathed."

"Thank you."

The Chief Chirugeon smiled in what he no doubt thought was a kindly fashion.

"Jerikon here will show you to the Enginarium where you've been assigned a bunk by the Omnissiac Confessor."  
Maternin was escorted by the dull-looking void-farer. His left leg was synthetic, a crude metal stump, and his footsteps made an arrhythmic noise against the metal grating of the deck.

She had not bothered to explain that she did not need directions. This was a standard pattern Enforcer class, and she knew the layout off by heart. Ships had always fascinated her. Even as a child, in the iron realm of her parents before they had been forced into the void, Maternin had memorised hundreds of ship patterns and recited their schematics to her father. He had chuckled and praised her memory, tickling her chin with his mecha-dendrites as his multi-tooled hands had worked busily at his projects.

Still, this was the first time that she had walked aboard a vessel of the Imperial Navy, rather than just examine diagrams of it. She was stunned by the primitiveness of its engineering compared to the ships of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the many fixtures that appeared to need manual maintenance. Jerikon's slow pace allowed her plenty of time to examine the quirks and features of the gloomy metal confines.

A harsh call came from the darkness and Maternin flinched as something small, dark and living darted past her. Her dendrites flicked at it, too slow to catch it, and Jerikon put his hand on her shoulder.

"Easy red-robe. No harming the dark passengers."

"Dark passengers?"

The creature, Maternin could now recognise it as a terran bird of some sort, had perched on a pipe only a few inches above their heads, and was watching them with intelligent curiosity.

"Crows," the voidfarer explained. "The late Admiral, may he rest in the Emperor's embrace, would bring them onto every ship he served on and let them loose. Keeps the gloomhaunts down, eat the larvae before they grow too big."

"Gloomhaunts?" Maternin asked, astonished.

"Of course," he looked at her as if she were dense. "Every ship's got to deal with gloomhaunts, angry little devils that they are. Hiding away in every crevice." He grinned and tugged down the collar on his void suit, to show her the ugly, ragged circle of pink scar tissue that marred his neck and shoulder. "Better to kill 'em before they get big enough to do that to y'."

"How can so many creatures survive in this dark?" She wondered aloud.

Jerikon spat, thoughtfully. "Anything can survive in the dark if'n it wants to bad enough."

Such infestation! Maternin was about to tell him that the Mechanicus ships she'd come up on could easily kill such creatures with chemicals and traps. Something gave her pause though. Knowledge was sacred, and if someone else did not have it then perhaps they had not earned it. The priests of Mars learned from a young age not to give away even the hint of knowledge without careful consideration.

Three red robed figures were waiting up ahead; Lachrimalli, overseers in naval parlance. Their eyes glowed in the darkness, and the electro-flails they carried could easily be mistaken for weapons, rather than tools of obedience.

"We will take the innovator from here, crewman."

Jerikon stopped, looking between Maternin and the Lachrimalli in confusion.

"Innovator?"

In the pit of her stomach, Maternin had been expecting this. 'Experimentor', the Enginseer Primaris had called her. 'Innovator' said the overseers. She knew that amongst the followers of the Emperor such terms would not necessarily be seen as grave insult. She had heard that innovative could even be considered a compliment. The Cult Mechanicus knew better.

The followers of the Omnissiah knew that the technology of this faded age had been hard won and paid for in blood. That in every one of the countless billions of machine spirits aboard this ship lurked the potential for chaos, for corruption at the hands of the warp. Only the templates of the ancients provided any hope of survival. Any change to those templates would take place slowly, tested to within an inch of its life, over centuries and often in the seclusion of the remotest regions of space.

It was a dangerous, lonely job, being an Experimentor. It was only one step away from heresy, and to some amongst her people, the step was so small as to be meaningless.

"Now see here", Jerikon growled. "Which I've been told to bring her to the Enginarium."

One of the tech priests stepped forward. His expressionless, masked face was as normal to Maternin as the mecha-dendrites on her back, but perhaps to non-Omnissians it could be an intimidating visage. Jerikon was leaning back warily.

"The Enginarium is our space. We'll make sure she gets there." When Jerikon didn't move, he continued. "You don't have your friends here with you crewman. Run back to your patricide Captain and leave us to our business."

"He's your bloody Captain too, you gear-loving suit of scrap metal! You don't scare me Timmon, you or your cronies." Jerikon was taking a step back with every blustering exclamation. He gave one last look at Maternin. Then he was gone.

Alone with her fellow tech-priests, Maternin looked at Timmon. He stared back, switching to binary now.

"Welcome to your new home, Genitari."

The first blow took Maternin by surprise. One of them had sidled behind her and knocked to the ground with a flail, its talons sparking off her skin. Then the strikes started to come thick and fast. She curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. She lashed out with her mecha-dendrites. She felt one of the priests grab a dendrite, holding it in vice- clawed hands. A knee went into Maternin's back. She called out in pain.

"These are for tech-priests, not hereteks. Time they were gone."

In pain and horror Maternin called out as her mecha-dendrite were brutally cut from her, torn free from the spinal implants. Two of the priests held her down while the other carried out the vicious amputation with a weld-knife.

When Maternin was finally let up, she could see through blurred eyes that Timmon was holding one limp dendrite in his hand. The Lachrimallus let it drop to the deck where it twitched spasmodically across the cold metal.

"Welcome to your new home, Genitari."

They left Maternin there, curled up, her robe torn and face cut, the jagged remnants of her ruined mechadendrites leaking haemo-lubricating fluid slowly across the cold metal deck.


	9. Part 2- Chapter 7

**Chapter 3**

Lysander III was a jewel of green and blue hues, a shining sphere in the dark void. As Jak's ships made their approach, the striking sight of the planet's continents and oceans was occasionally occluded by the vast shelf of the orbiting planetary dockyards.

Jak was shocked to see such a remote world in possession of such an expansive and sophisticated dockyards. He had never seen a colony world do such much, without the resources of the Imperium backing their construction. Vast and labyrinthine, the dockyards contained space for hundreds of intra-system vessels and dozens of warp-capable ships. Even more surprisingly, most of the berths were filled. The Yolenna's scanners had given them some sense of the traffic around the planet but seeing it in person gave Jak pause. It was nothing of course, compared to the traffic around the hive worlds of the Calixis, but for a little colony world, one which had been thought lost to the Imperium, it was staggering.

A ship filled nearly every one of the ribbed docking bays, which were connected to each other in cobweb fashion by great stone-clad flying buttresses. The network of buttresses lead to long spires that formed the dockyards' spine, from which construction materials were being drawn into orbit by constantly active space elevators.

The only consideration to the relative penury of the planet was the tightly packed nature of the docking arrangements. Ships could be seen berthed at right angles to each other, so that the stern of one ship seemed to emanate from the keel of another. This pattern was repeated across the cobweb of docks, so that each sliver of available space was used as efficiently as possible.

One of the ships stood out from the others, both for its immense size and the magnificent ornamentation of its hull. Twice as long as the _Yolenna Symphony,_ with sweeping fins that slanted downwards at elegant angles from the great bulk of her hull, the ship bristled with extensive rows of macrocannons, set in gilded stirrups. Her small, sharp-nosed prow was finished in chequered green and gold that gleamed in the reflected light from the planet. It was a far cry from the traditional, dull Ravensburg chequer of the Fleet Velasquez.

Jak gave a low, admiring whistle as he contemplated the Grand Cruiser through the bridge's great vista panels. Ravenna was standing alongside him. She made a clicking noise, perhaps of irritation.

"It looks like we won't be sweeping in and intimidating the locals then."

Jak grinned. "No, indeed." He turned around. "Mr Stieg!" he called out. "Kindly, ask the Keeper of the Librarium if we have any record of who owns the ship named _Unshakeable Will,_ an Avenger class if I'm not mistaken. Ms Jate, what would you say she can throw?"

The one-eyed Master of Ordnance shook her head wonderingly at the great vessel.

"Sir, there's 40 Kilotons there if she got in the midst of the action, but she'd tear herself apart trying to do it. Look at the wear on those stirrups. That's an old bird."

Forty kilotons of ordnance; The Siren's Wail could only throw four kilotons with both port and starboard side guns firing. Jak's heart glowed with greed. What it would feel like to command that kind of firepower.

"Hail from the Dock Master, Sir," called out his Master of the Vox. "We've been cleared for approach. A representative of the planetary nobility will be there to greet us."

In fact they found themselves greeted by a crowd, thousands of cheering dockworkers, many holding aloft great banners and signs sporting the Imperial Aquila, alongside other symbols that were likely the sigils of the system's nobility.

The young noble who came to greet them was dressed in bright greens and yellow, and wore a strange conical hat, from which tassels hung down to his nose, forming a sort of veil. Although some fashions (storm coats and skull motifs in particular) stayed true across the millennia, Jak was used to a great diversity of traditional dress across the colonies of the Empire and this one only gave him a moments pause to wonder how the young man could see through that veil.

Jak had dressed to impress as well, wearing his father's uniform, with the collar so high it tickled his ears and the decorations of a hundred plus campaigns across both breasts. He well knew the importance of a correct first impression.

The young nobleman tried to cut across the gangway to greet him in person, but found his way blocked by Borjean, buttons sparkling till you could see your reflection in them, and Ravenna, wearing her cocked hat athwarts with a feather in it for the occasion.

"Our Lord-Captain and the Archdeacon will speak to the Queen in person." Ravenna told the nobleman coldly.

Jak had grown up as a member of the nobility of Scintilla and spent two interminable years in his teens learning the ins and outs of Imperial courtly behaviour for situations exactly like this. There was a delicate dance of precedence to be conducted, and Archdeacon Benetor had not made it easy. He had insisted on a retinue at least twice as large as Jak's. In return, for the last two hours Jak had taken great pleasure in updating his retinue every ten minutes so that Benetor had to scramble to find every priest of rank available aboard the ship in order to upgrade his own retinue.

Now the members of the ecclesiasty formed a motley, anxious crowd, nearly spilling over the edges of the docking platform as they jostled to stand closest to their Archdeacon. Meanwhile Jak's officers had formed orderly ranks, unperturbed by the erratic gravity of the dockyards or the oppressive presence of the void all around them; on the great open orbital platforms where void ships berthed for refuel and restock, one truly became truly aware of the vastness of the void was and of how terribly close it clung.

The hushed conversation between Ravenna and the nobleman seemed to have concluded and the Yolenna's large party was taken to be introduced to the Queen. Her Majesty stood at the centre of a large circular platform, surrounded by a handful of guards in green and gold armour. She wore an ornate dress that draped into a shape somewhat reminiscent of a skull, with shoulder-pads that curved upwards and extended out a foot to either side of her body. Her headpiece was similar to the young nobleman's, but topped with a golden crown picked out in Emeralds. Once again, tassels hung low to cover the upper part of her face, these ones threaded with shimmering diamonds.

At the Queen's side stood a large, middle-aged man with a voluminous red beard. He wore a dashing green coat in impeccable Calixian style, and enough jewellery to purchase a ship with. At his side he carried a chainsword with a lavishly gilded hilt. His hand rested on it easily, as if it had just happened to fall there whilst the man stood at his ease. A bodyguard perhaps? But no bodyguard would dress so finely, almost outshining his own liege.

Standing exactly between the Queen's party and Jak's, a small man carrying a white stave, and wearing the bulky mechanical augmentations of a Lord Steward and herald, called out in greeting.

"Representatives of his glorious radiance, the God-Emperor of Mankind, you are honoured and welcome guests to our realm. You shall receive all such comfort and supply as we can provide. For centuries the royal family has been preparing the tithe for this day, and you shall receive it in full. Her Serene Highness, Empress Hermia bids you welcome to Lysander III, capital of the system."

At that the Queen herself stepped forward, and gave the smallest of bows towards Jak and Benetor. When she spoke, it was in high, melodious tones.

"Honoured Lord Captain, Beneficent Archdeacon. I hope you will appreciate that, that as representatives of our beloved God-Emperor I feel that you are as family to me. This is a day of great importance in the history of this system and it shall be a day of celebration across the realm. But for me personally, it is a day of personal jubilation to see you both, and welcome you to Lysander."

Jak glanced at Benetor, whose face had set into silent fury, jaw grinding so hard it looked as if it might break. It seemed that finding the right words for the moment would fall to Jak. This was a momentous occasion but also a delicate one. It needed to be marked appropriately. Nothing too flowery. Formal but not overly cold. Expressing the Emperor's severity but also his tender mercy as well.

Jak took a deep breath.

"That's a beautiful cruiser you've got out there," the worlds spilled out of his mouth. "Any idea who owns it?"

* * *

It was hard to tell if the Queen was shocked or not by Jak's question. Her expression was mostly hidden beneath her veil and her fixed smile did not move an inch. Her consort stepped forward, bowing with an extravagant flourish.

"Titanius L'Tarvius, of House L'Tarvius, Rogue Trader. I am blessed to say that the _Unshakeable Will_ is my ship, Sir, gifted to my ancestor by Saint Drusus himself during the Angevin Crusades. May I add my welcome to the Queen's and say it is a great pleasure to meet a Velasquez at last. I am a great admirer of Oberon Velasquez. Your father I presume?"

Jak bowed in return, and then realised that he should have bowed to the Queen. He made an attempt at a flourish as he did so, but then thought better of it half way through, so that his hands ended up just waving vaguely at the air.

"Oberon was my late father," he answered L'Tarvius. "He died on our way out. You knew him?"

"Only by reputation. He was a true fighting captain. I mourn his death."

"If Lord L'Tarvius admired his prowess that speaks very highly of him." The Queen piped up, in her mellifluous voice. "The System of Lysander mourns his death as well. The galaxy needs more fighting captains."

Jak glanced at Benetor. The Archdeacon's jaw was audibly grinding. He felt compelled to keep the conversation going.

"You must forgive the Archdeacon his surprise. Until our arrival in this system we had thought it unvisited by representatives of the Empire for a millennia. And that it had a different name."

L'Tarvius winced slightly at the implied rebuke, although once again the Queen's face –what could be seen of it- showed no hint of reaction.

"Yes," L'Tarvius said. "I have not yet had chance to return to the greater Empire in order to update the Administratum on the progress of the system. When I first arrived in this system I saw that it was in dire need of my assistance, and I have determined to remain until such time as its people are delivered from danger."

"Lord L'Tarvius is a hero of the Lysander system," added the Queen. "It is through his noble efforts that we have begun to fight back against the Dark Kin."

"Dark Kin?" Jak asked, hearing the capitalisation slide into place in the Queen's words.

"The people of Lysander's term for the xenos, the Eldar slavers, who have plagued them for so long." L'Tarvius explained.

"The creatures infest this system. For centuries they took slaves freely, at a whim. At their worst, raids were occurring three or four times a year, with no coordinated defence against them. The Queen's family began the work of defending the people, and I have lent the martial support of my family's fleets to aid her. It is a personal crusade and I will not rest until they are scoured from this system. I have helped to fund a refitting of their intra-system fleet with macro-cannons and lances to patrol the three planets. Very soon I hope to take the battle to the Eldar's home base and scour them from this system once and for all."

"Well," Jak said, still looking for some form of reaction from the silent Archdeacon. He shrugged awkwardly. "That all sounds very good. We've had our own run in with your Dark Kin ourselves, actually," he added.

"You did. How did you fare?"

"We gave them our best. Destroyed one of their escort ships and chased off another and a cruiser. There's a little scraping and some engine damage, which we'll gladly take the opportunity to repair, but apart from that we came away well."

He reported all this as casually as good, letting the achievement speak for itself. It had the desired effect, eliciting a cheer from those gathered to observe. The Queen clapped her hands together, delighted, but Jak was more interested in the contemplative, evaluating look on the older Rogue Trader's face. Was he impressed?

There wasn't time to find out, as this was the moment that Benetor decide to explode. The Archdeacon advanced on the Queen, spluttering indignantly in the name of the Emperor. Three men in ornate power armour stepped forward to protect her, although they wore the livery of House L'Tarvius, Jak realised now. In response, five burly ecclesiastical bodyguards pushed forward to surround their Archdeacon.

Benetor seemed completely ignorant of the tense stand-off he had created. He stopped within six feet of the Queen.

"You have committed grave sins too countless to mention young woman, and you speak of welcomes and family? You are no family to the church, you are a servant of it and you should be on your knees in prayer and repentance for this opportunity to leave the darkness."

Jak glanced across to his own bodyguards. He noticed that Garian had pressed forward, immaculate in a dress-uniform that Jak had not realised he'd held onto. Like Al Dessi, it was difficult to shake the navy out of the Master at Arms.

"So much for charming the Queen until she's eating out of his hand," Borjean murmured. Jak whispered to him from the side of his mouth.

"If this kicks off, we head back to the ship and then deal with whoever's left standing. I don't want to be a part of whatever happens here when Benetor starts throwing punches at royalty."

The Queen had not backed off an inch from the outraged Archdeacon.

"Your holiness, I utterly reject the suggestion that we have erred in our stewardship of the system. My family have served the people of Lysander, faithfully in the name of the God-Emperor, for over five hundred years."

"Its name is the Demetrius system!" The Archdeacon screamed.

"The name was changed when my family overthrew the old regime who was unwilling to fight back against the Eldar. My family traces its lineage to the noble Lysander of Choripoli, himself, a warrior who never would have stood for ill treatment of the humble and faithful who were suffering at the hands of xenos degenerates."

"Ooh, not a strong argument." Borjean whispered to Jak. "Wasn't Lysander a traitor?"

"I never remember my Macharian Crusades. Who was on what side when the shells stopped flying?"

The Queen carried on, ignoring the whispers from the sidelines.

"We had no guidance from the greater Empire on how to manage the Eldar deprivations. Whilst we still had astropaths we called out into the darkness for salvation, but none came. Still we held onto our faith. When we could bear their attacks no longer, we took our suffering as a sign from the Emperor himself to build our defences. We reached for the stars and we colonised new worlds _and we kept ourselves safe_. I am not ashamed of that. I have created a Solar Empire, but I still recognise the God-Emperor."

"You confess and compound your blasphemies! You should be stripped of your throne and beaten through the streets!"

"We have a fleet for our protection," the Queen said quietly. She did not need to add that the fleet could just as easily provide protection against the colony fleets.

"I have the might of the Empire's war ships behind me!" Benetor pointed triumphantly, and to Jak's dismay he realised that it was at him. The Queen's head turned to look at him, but he could see nothing of her expression through the damned veil. L'Tarvius had stepped to the side, also observing the altercation with some concern

"I'm really here more as an escort you know," Jak told the fuming Archdeacon. "I don't think there's anything in the Letter of Marque about blowing up planets after we've dropped you off."

"Traitor!" Benetor screamed, and even his bodyguards were beginning to look embarrassed now.

"You and Lysander," Borjean grunted _sotto_ voice.

In the end it was L'Tarvius who saved the situation. Stepping between the Queen and Benetor he calmly suggested that everyone might need some time to adjust to the new information and that he would love to have everyone dine aboard his ship at seven bells in the forenoon, after which any potential complications between the system ruler and the noble representative of the ecclesiasty could be calmly and most importantly, privately, resolved.

The deflated crowd was dispersed. In a cloud of thunderous silence, the Yolennas returned aboard their ship trailed by the Archdeacon's retinue. Only one person dared to continue speaking in the aftermath of that disastrous first contact. Jak could here Benetor calling his name angrily from twenty or so people behind him.

"Captain?" Ravenna asked quietly, raising an eyebrow.

"Not now," Jak muttered. His people closed ranks behind him, frustrating the Archdeacon's approach. "Ms Al Dessi, Mr Sykarin, I'd like to see you both in my cabin."

* * *

"We won't be needing dinner today, Jestross" Jak called out as he entered the great cabin. "We're dining aboard the Grand Cruiser."

Jestross emerged, displaying as much silent consternation as the shaggy monster could.

"Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to say to the Queen of the System 'No thanks, I'll dine alone tonight, my cook's far better than yours, and he sulks when he doesn't get his way'. Go polish some cutlery instead." Jestross sniffed but did not return to the Captain's galley.

Jak was brief with Ravenna and Garian when they arrived. "I want the ships prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I want the armsmen prepped to defend a boarding action. Benetor may have pushed these people too far, and one of them has a Grand Cruiser."

"And the colony ships? Are we leaving them or taking them with us?"

Before Jak could give an answer to that, his great cabin door opened again. Benetor forced his way through, trailed by Borjean, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Jak didn't blame him. It was difficult to say no to a man as high-ranking as the Archdeacon.

"Your refusal to show loyalty goes too far, Velasquez."

"Loyalty? By the Golden Throne, man, these people haven't seen a priest from Terra in over a thousand years. They've kept their oaths, they've welcomed you and you start screaming at them."

"They have violated their sacred oaths. They have built up the system without decree from Holy Terra."

"In order to protect themselves," Jak pointed out. The Archdeacon sneered.

"I should not have expected your support. Clearly you are just as far from the light of the Emperor as all these children are. You reject your faith."

"I reject picking fights with people who have twice our firepower."

"You consort with abominations."

"I wouldn't call Borjean an abomination, that's just what he looks like when he's sober."

"You parade your heresy, your _patricide_."

At the last word Jak felt his face freeze. He straightened to his full height and looked down at the Archdeacon.

"Well, this has stopped being fun. I want you off my ship, Archdeacon. Go tell your people to pack their things. We've delivered your colony ships to the system. The Letter of Marque is fulfilled. I don't want you darkening my deck any longer."

Benetor seemed to have realised that he had gone too far. The old man stopped ranting, but he drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster as he withdrew.

"They will hear of this on Holy Terra," he said, and then spat his final words, "Lord-Captain."

In the silence that followed his departure Garian was the first to speak.

"You shouldn't have done that."

Jak sat down at his desk with a grunt.

"I don't need to hear those particular words right now, thank you."

"You know what they used to say back on Elysia? Power always lies with the priest."

"I've heard that saying. It's not Elysian."

"That's not my point. You've made a powerful enemy for no reason."

"He annoys me. Isn't that reason enough?"

Garian shook his head. "Not for a leader, boy."

"Don't call me boy." Jak snapped. Al Dessi and Borjean exchanged uncomfortable glances. Jestross was bristling. Jak doubted he even understood what was being spoken about but the xenos was extremely sensitive to tension in a room.

Garian sighed. "The old man can't have been an easy one to have as a father. He was hard on you all. I saw that. He was a hard man. I don't think I understood why until now."

Jak found himself at a loss for what to say. He'd never heard Garian speak in this way. It came to him just how much Garian had aged over the course of the past few weeks. He'd served with the Admiral for longer than Jak had been alive. Oberon's death seemed to have hit him harder than Jak had ever realised.

"This is not the time for this conversation Master at Arms. I want to be prepared for eventualities if Benetor pushes towards open conflict with the Queen and what appears to be an incredibly well armed Rogue Trader ally. I am open to suggestions on that matter and that alone."

"We can be prepared for a boarding action, but we will struggle to return home safely if we can't refuel and restock here." Sykarin said, immediately snapping into a professional stance. "If the _Unshakeable Will_ becomes opposed to us then we will not outrun it without losing at least one of our ships, and we will be hard pressed to meet it in orbital combat, even three to one."

"We can refuel via solar sail if absolutely necessary. What about our obligations? It's too late to take back what I said, but are we correct in the law? Can we leave Torsmond to his own foolishness?"

"I believe the law would say that we've done our duty as far as the Letter of Marque." Al Dessi said. "The Archdeacon may object, but we've delivered the colonists to the system, and we did not hear the Queen deny them safe haven. It's not our responsibility to account for the fact that the information provided was a thousand years out of date."

"If we simply up and leave the Archdeacon to his fate, and he manages to establish himself then we'll have dangerous enemy." Sykarin said. "Even at this remove, the Archdeacon can cause trouble for you, particular if you wish to retain the Letter of Marque."

"We can't stay and get drawn into a possible battle for the system. This isn't Starveling. These people are well armed and able to defend themselves. And if the Rogue Trader chooses to become involved then there will be serious firepower against us in the void."

"So," Jak said, pressing his hands against the desk. "No clear way forward. Then let us keep our options open for now. We'll attend the dinner and try to learn more about the attentions of this L'Tarvius character. He seems to be key to our next move."

He dismissed all but his Master at Arms. His earlier words had concerned Jak and he felt that he owed his old friend at least an opportunity to be heard. He invited Garian to take a seat, but he kept the captain's desk between them.

Garian slumped in silence, staring over Jak's shoulder at the endless void.

"You wanted to say something about my father, Mr Sykarin?"

It seemed to take an age, but finally the old soldier began to speak.

"I don't think I understood until he passed what sacrifice meant. What it meant to the Admiral I mean. He would put everything on the line if it meant getting the ship through. Lose five thousand men to save ten thousand? He wouldn't even blink. I saw it happen once, he left five thousand men to be captured by reavers so that the ship could escape clean. They... anyway. I didn't understand it. I could lead men onto the battlefield, knowing they might get killed, but I didn't know how to sacrifice like that."

"What does this have to do with the priest Garian?"

"Some sacrifices aren't just about casualties. You have to be willing to sacrifice the most important part of yourself, your conscience, your dignity. If it means getting the ship through, you have to be ready to sacrifice those things."

"Ok, I understand. I will try to piss off less priests."

"I want you to be a good leader Jak. A great leader. But your pride can't get in the way of getting the job done."

"It's not enough just to get the job done, Garian. I need to be exceptional. Unquestionable. My brothers and sisters will be waiting for me back in Calixis. Do you understand? You know what they'll be like. Ruthless. I need to give them someone to blame for my father's death or they will come for me."


	10. Part 2- Chapter 8

**Chapter 4**

Deep in the vaults of the _Yolenna Symphony_ 's Enginarium, Maternin Shyendi, late of the _Vonaznaniya-17.8,_ contemplated her fate. As one tragedy had followed another -the loss of her ship, her crewmates, her family, her rank and her very limbs- she had found herself retreating into the inculcations of her youth, searching for solace in old teachings.

"The whole is the sum of its knowledge. Pain is the knowledge of the requirement for repair. Loss is the knowledge of the non-essential stripped clean. Humiliation is the knowledge of how far we must travel before we are blessed with true comprehension."

Maternin had not thought of those words for years. She could still recall the face of her mother as she spoke them to her, a jawless obsidian teardrop, shining with a dozen glowing sensory cells.

"Do you understand, my child?" She had said. "The machine does not suffer, for all pain is knowledge. The machine cannot suffer. The machine works. The mind is a machine whose work is the accumulation of knowledge. There can be no suffering in work."

Maternin had nodded in mute agreement, but at such a young age she could not make sense of her mother's words. The galaxy seemed to have suffering aplenty in store for the Genitari.

Maternin had been born on the Forge World Daidala, home to a large conclave of Genitari, her mother and father's people. She had found her people to be tolerated but never accepted by the Cult Mechanicus at large. Partially they were ostracised, partially they isolated themselves, in fear of the persecution that would follow should outsiders look too closely at the work of those who knew the face of their children and followed the Paths of Trial and Error.

So Maternin had been somewhat prepared for the reception she had received aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_ ; it was the reception that he parents had always tried to protect her from. But her mother was dead now, slaughtered by the Kabalite Eldar, and it was too late to tell her that she understood.

The Adeptus Mechanicus aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_ were ruled by the literal iron fist of Archmagos Dhukov, designated Enginseer Primaris under his contract with the ship's former captain, one Oberon Velasquez. Dhukov had supplied the thousands of tech priests required to operate the ancient plasma engines and byzantine networks of ship systems. Every tech priest aboard the ship was loyal to him and he had made it very clear to each and every one of them where the newest addition fit into the hierarchy of the Enginarium vault.

It was somewhere below the servitors.

Maternin did not mind. She would remember her mother's words. She would endure.

And she would work.

She endured the sly kicks from the tech savants in the Enginarium Mess, and the blast of focused binaric sensory disruptors behind her back that sent her reeling. She worked the sewerage outflow pipe valve maintenance rituals flawlessly and without complaint. There was no praise for her work, simply more work.

As consolation, she took every opportunity to soak in the details of the endless corridors and vaulted chambers of her new home. It was the first Enforcer class she had ever set foot on, and was exactly as she had imagined it would be.

Maternin had loved ships ever since she was a child. Whereas most of the Adeptus Mechanicus learnt of the ships they served aboard by way of implanted wetware and Noospheric auto-didaction, Maternin had studied the vessels of the Imperium and the Adeptus Mechanicus out of the sheer love of learning. She had poured over antique ship plans and system schematics, fingers reverently touching the curling parchment of archaic documents as she drank in every detail.

She was allowed no time for independent exploration; her duties were endless and exhausting, for unlike many of her senior augmented compatriots, Maternin still needed rest. However, despite her restricted movements, she quickly learnt that the Enginarium was a world away from the rest of the ship, and not a happy world either. Dhukov seemed to run the Engine vaults as his own personal fiefdom, almost independent from the rest of the ship, and outsiders were not welcome.

Some outsiders did appear at times. A nervous, stooped man who was apparently the ship's purser met often with Dhukov. The master of the Vox, a technically minded woman who seemed to have no qualms about invading the quasi-sacred space of the Enginarium during her personal inspection of the ship's communication systems was also a regular presence. But these were exceptions rather than the rule.

Even as an unwelcome newcomer, Maternin sensed a resentment amongst the ship's tech priest towards her owner and captain. She heard mutterings that the captain had murdered his former commander, and worse, that he did not have proper reverence for the vessel's machine spirits. Some more senior priests could be heard to openly question whether Dhukov's contract still held with this new upstart captain.

It seemed quite clear to the Adeptus Mechanicus aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_ that Dhukov was the true power aboard the ship. After all, it was the Enginseer Primaris who ensured that the ship ran efficiently and effectively. The Lord-captain simply pointed where to go. Any fool could do that.

Maternin did not engage in this speculation, nor was her opinion canvassed. She had more pressing concerns.

Timmon of the Lachrimallus, seemed to have taken personal responsibility for the re-education of Maternin Shyendi. His favourite tactic was to present her with a series of logical errors in command form, such as ordering her to calculate the ship's dehydrated water supply, or fetch a length of cable for the ship's wireless vox network. Such orders were to be accepted without complaint, for fear of punishment, but failure to complete such impossible foolishness also resulted in punishment. Each order was a knot impossible to untie, and this was the point.

On the watch in which the ship made orbit around Lysander III, and those priests not overseeing the approach vectors took to the ship's sensor portals to examine the planet's satellites and orbital platforms appraisingly, Maternin found her path blocked by Timmon.

"Rhetorical: Where do you think you are going, savant? Orders: When the engine's spool down I want you to collect the most valuable by-products from the plasma vents and present them to me."

The Cult Mechanicus were not ones for expressive gestures such as double takes, but Maternin was aware of a subtle shifting of sensor arrays amongst those nearby at Timmon's outrageous order.

The vent chambers contained nothing after an orbital approach but corrosive toxic sludge and molten slag. It was recycled for use in other parts of the ship by servitors or bondsmen, none of whom survived long at the duty. All of the waste products of the engines was of equal value; that is, not much. To comb through it for the most _valuable_ by-product? Ludicrous. And deadly.

But Maternin understood the true logic behind the order. She was a wayward gear in Dhukov's ordered kingdom. Such arbitrary, inefficient, illogical instruction was Timmon's method of grinding her down, filing away at her teeth until she fit perfectly with the countless other rotating cogs of the ship.

"Yes, Lachrimallus." She bowed to Timmon deferentially, and made herself scarce for the next two hours. Perhaps he would forget the order, perhaps he would later remember and punish her for her failure. It mattered little to her. He had already taken her mecha-dendrites; there was little he could do that could make Maternin hate him more.

So when she saw Timmon at the end of the watch, she did not hesitate or try to avoid him. But what happened next, surprised them both.

A servitor stepped out in front of Maternin. It held something out to her.

"I have scoured the plasma vent waste silos for the most valuable by-products, Mistress, in anticipation of your realisation that such a task would be corrosive and contaminative for your most valuable components."

The rudimentary logic engine augmentation unit running down one half of his face contrasted with the slack, shiny skin of the more human half, in a crude approximation of the great symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus; man meeting machine. The expression on his face was blank, but to the romantically inclined the visible features might almost have appeared to assemble themselves into optimistic expectation.

Maternin recognised the servitor as one of those that aboard this ship were called the 'Merry Servants'. A few hundred servitors, at some stage in the ship's history, had formed a semblance of self-awareness. They had been tolerated by the Adeptus Mechanicus as a fascinating display of the Omnissiah's divine spark, and a beneficial addition to the servitor corps, being wholly obedient but with a streak of initiative that came in useful at the most unexpected times.

Maternin realised that the servitor must have been listening when Timmon gave his ridiculous order, and attempted to fulfil it. She looked down at his hands, turned to cracked, bloody ruins by the mess of charred, radioactive runoff shards that he had collected.

Maternin made a clicking noise of irritation. It was a very human habit that would mean nothing to her more augmented brethren, but they would share her annoyance at a good tool ruined by Timmon's unnecessary order.

And then she saw something in amongst the fragments. It had been charred and burned, partially melted away, but it stood out amongst the shards of plasma debris. She felt her shoulder blade twitch as the ghost of her mecha-dendrite itched to pick up the object.

She reached out with her hand but then paused, knowing that flesh was too fragile to pick up the hot, radioactive metal. Still, it was clear to see without touching it that this was not something that belonged in the plasma reaction chambers.

Then her eyes caught another piece. And another. Mentally she put them together. The object had been dismantled at some point and badly warped by the heat and toxic sludge but still she could put the pieces together in her mind into a recognisable whole. The hum of binary around her told her that other priests were coming to the same conclusion.

The blankly smiling servitor was holding fragments of a gun.

* * *

Ravenna Al Dessi spread her hands out wide on her small, plasmetal desk, almost as if trying to encompass the information that the dismantled weapon provided to her.

"Where was it found?" She asked. The Master at Arms gave a complicated shrug.

"Hard to trace its provenance directly back to the assassination, but it came to me by way of the Enginarium. An overseer, name of Timmon, recognised it after it was accidentally picked up by a servitor from Plasma Vent 25-517-20-F. There are a few hundred different ways that it could have got there, but the most obvious and likely is that the assassin dismantled it and dumped it down the _perpetua demitto_ during a vector change and it ended there."

"Which leaves us with what?"

"Very little that can point us to who used it. But…"

"What don't you want to tell me, Master at Arms?" Ravenna had known Garian since she had first started serving alongside Admiral Velasquez. She knew when he was hiding something, and the Master at Arms was definitely not being forthright with her now.

Garian squinted, rubbing his hand across his face. His good eye twitched a little as he considered the weapon.

"This is a one shot killing weapon, made to be undetectable to the great cabin micro-augers, untraceable to a forge world or munitorium, and easy to dismantle and discard as scrap. It's only by the dumbest luck that a servitor collected it for someone else to identify it. Even if we ignore the illegality and tech-heresy involved, it takes a great deal of technological knowhow to put together something like this."

"Which indicates Cult Mechanicus involvement?"

Sykarin nodded. Ravenna swore. She put her fingers to her temple.

"This is the last thing we need. Ok. No. We tread carefully with this. I want to know more about who could put together something like this on my ship. Speak to Dhukov."

"He's not going to like that."

"So speak to him politely, Mr Sykarin."

"He'll say that we're profiling his people."

"We're simply relying on his expertise."

"Ma'am, do you really think that we can still find the killer?"

Ravenna shrugged.

"We're still negotiating dock access with the Lysandrians, but that will be completed by the time the captain leaves for his soiree. After that, I suspect our killer will be gone. Planetside, or to the colony ships, or aboard the Rogue Trader vessel if they particularly resourceful. You know that we can't hope to hold them once we're docked. But so help me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to find this killer and whoever gave him his orders. If that's what it takes, I will spend the rest of my life gladly on it. I owe the old man that much."

"Ave to that. Are you going to tell the captain about the gun?"

Ravenna winced.

"No Mr Sykarin, I am not going to inform the captain about this development, and nor are you. It doesn't give us anything to accuse anyone with, and he has enough to contend with at the moment. After all, he is going to be dining with a Queen."

* * *

It is a fact of your average naval officer's life that a combination of service and high standing in society will lead inevitably and equally to both the battlefield and the ballroom. Sometimes it can be difficult to know which is the more daunting of the two.

Jak spent some time preparing his clothes for L'Tarvius' dinner party. An irony of all militaries is that for a people dedicated to battle and bloodshed –generally ruinous to any outfit- an endless amount of time can be spent on the fastidious preparation of the perfect combinations of colours and patterns, and the most fashionable representation of the warrior spirit. Looking correct for battle was almost as important as being able to fight, and in some services Jak had known, more so.

For the Adeptus Astarte and Imperial Guard -primping, preening types, independent, and always at the high edge of fashion- there were a thousand different uniform designs and colour combinations. But the Imperial Navy placed value on tradition and uniformity. The dress blues of Battlefleet Calixis had been unchanged for millennia.

It was still acceptable for a Letter of Marque's man to wear his uniform of course, but Jak had never risen higher than a junior lieutenant and it was not a particularly impressive uniform. He decided against wearing his father's coat again, as he had for the first meeting at the Lysander docks; it had been a poor choice in any case, but with a knowledgeable hand like L'Tarvius about it would be downright foolish for Jak to pretend that any of the ornate medals that adorned it belonged to him.

Attempting to keep pace with the finery available to the Rogue Trader and the System's Queen would be hopeless as well. Oberon had not been a collector of fine suits or jewelry, as those two evidently were. Instead, Jak decided to dress within himself, wearing a tight velvet frockcoat in purple with golden embroidered cuffs, the collar cinched below his jaw. The traditional Naval fashion had, for thousands of years, leant itself to collars that came up about the ears, and this seemed to have remained a feature of Lysander's culture as well. But, the last time Jak had been on Scintilla scandalously low collars had been in fashion, and he thought a touch of this modish attire would help to avoid competing with the ostentatious Rogue Trader or jewel-clad Queen. He wore it with pale cream trousers and patent leather boots that shone like dark stars.

Fastening the collar in the mirror, Jak recalled the last time he had worn this fine coat. That had been the day his father had told him that he would be leaving the navy and coming aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_ , not as an officer, but as a mere armsman. It had been the last time that Jak had seen his twin sister as well. The memory of that conversation still stung. Jak pushed it out of his mind, a concern for another time.

With the clothes taken care of, Jak had three servitors take on the task of slicking back his thick mane of dark hair into somewhat respectable straightness and carefully trimming his beard. Appraising the results critically in the mirror, Jak had to admit he looked every inch the rogue captain. He grinned rakishly at his own reflection as he fastened the scabbard that held the Velasquez cutlass at his side.

Along with two dozen of the Fleet Velasquez's better-presented command cadre, Jak left Stieg in charge of the Yolenna, and boarded the _Unshakeable Will_ for the banquet. He had expected to be welcomed aboard by L'Tarvius himself, but instead a dusty Seneschal ushered them politely to a mag-lev terminal from which they made a swift transition to a great stone dining hall.

The dining hall was designed in a baroque style that Jak loathed, the stone and marble work was dimly lit by lumens hid amidst great swathes of candles that guttered in the air-flow from a thousand hidden vents. It gave these old ships a vast, dark, airy feel so different from the brighter, more cramped ships that Jak had grown up in.

They were announced with great fanfare and exhaustive ceremony, which was then repeated only a few minutes later as Queen Hermia arrived. Jak noted that both he, as the Emperor's representative, and the Queen received precisely equal fanfares from L'Tarvius' personal orchestra, droning hymns of pomp and reverence.

Jak also noted the long banners and tapestries that hung along the walls, which depicted the history of the system dating back to her first founding, making clear through its use Imperial iconography and the image of the Emperor looking down over her works that the Queen's loyalty to the Imperium of Man was beyond reproach.

It was a subtle piece of work, the wily rogue trader attempting to establish for the young Queen the sense of connection to the Imperium and loyalty to the Emperor that her first meeting with the Archdeacon had failed to achieve. Jak wondered why L'Tarvius cared so much. He wondered what the Rogue Trader stood to gain by facilitating the Queen's détente with the church.

As host, L'Tarvius sat at the head of the table, with the Queen on one side of him and Jak on the other. Benetor, he told them both solemnly, had politely declined the invitation, begging illness due to the rigors of void travel. The Archdeacon had retired to his place amongst the colonists for rest and contemplation.

That was the last time the Archdeacon or the new colonists were mentioned for the night. Instead the Rogue Trader's officers and various dignitaries from Lysander kept up a lively flow of conversation. Jak listened politely as the the Queen repeatedly informed him how happy she was to have them as guests of her people. Slightly down the table Al Dessi found herself trapped in conversation with a nervously lecherous young nobleman, whilst Sykarin was forced to speak with a small, aging baroness who shouted questions like "How large would you say the Emperor is? I have head the Emperor is very large and almost entirely golden! He must be quite difficult to chat to don't you think?"

"Madam, where I come from, such talk is considered blasphemy and often like to get the speaker punished."

"Oh well, I've heard you have come all the way across the galaxy to teach us all about blasphemy and punishments. I do look forward to learning, young man."

For his part, L'Tarvius was an enthusiastic and generous host. He kept up a lively line of conversation between the clearly floundering Jak and the somewhat reticent Queen, her expression frustratingly hidden beneath another veil. On the topic of the Imperial Navy L'Tarvius was effusive in his praise; although he had never served, he proved knowledgeable about their history and worth. "The lifeblood of Empire" he said, raising his glass in one of many toasts for the night.

He asked Jak to recount for the guests their battle with the Eldar slavers in detail. Jak did so with the assistance of the tableware, so that a silver skimming ladle became the Yolenna and the firing line of her lance, rotating about the table to destroy a luckless ramekin that had taken on the role of the Eldar ship. When the porcelain tureen torture cruiser had been successfully chased from the table, all the assembled guests rose to their feet in applause.

"Remarkable!" L'Tarvius boomed. "You had your ships placed as if you knew exactly where the Eldar would strike from."

Jak shrugged modestly. "The Eldar were arrogant, and I was banking on that. They thought a standard kiting pincer attack would be enough to pick off one or two of our most vulnerable ships and escape with the prisoners. If they'd taken us more seriously as a threat they could have torn us apart, but their arrogance was their downfall."

"Ha! I'll drink to that too!" roared L'Tarvius and raised his glass again. Jak joined in the toast, but he caught a glimpse of the Queen, her face fixed on his, and he could only assume her gaze as well. He wondered how she felt, self-styled Empress of a system, to be so thoroughly upstaged by this bombastic Rogue Trader.

The dinner was most likely excellent, but Jak was in no position to judge; he had been brought up on ship's fare and had no taste for fine dining, plus there was too many dishes that were clearly delectable to the Lysandrians, but were foreign to his palate. Only at the desert did he become truly excited.

"Ork's head pudding!" L'Tarvius announced, as the enormous wobbling mass was brought to the table by four serving servitors. "In honour of our noble guests and the traditions of the Imperial Navy I have had my chefs prepare this traditional voidfaring dish." He bowed towards Jak. "I hope it suffices."

Ork's head was a delicacy for sailors, with its primary ingredient being the emergency nutrient slabs that all ships kept on hand in vast quantities. These were broken apart (sometimes with the assistance of power tools) and mixed with lard, mech-wright's grease, and grog in a large cloth bag. The whole thing was boiled until it softened and went a bright green colour, and then eaten hot from the bag.

It was possibly Jak's favourite food in the whole galaxy and nothing could have made him more favourably inclined to the old Rogue Trader.

After this dessert, which the ships' crews ate with relish and the Lysandrians with great care, and with most of the guests having consumed a large amount of fine dammassine, L'Tarvius rose to his feet and clapped his hands together loudly.

"Ladies and gentleman, honoured guest, your gracious majesty. What I am about to say shall come as no surprise to many of you here, but please allow me to make a formal announcement of my intentions."

The Queen gave a small smile of acquiescence beneath her veil and L'Tarvius continued his booming oratory, stroking his great red beard as he spoke.

"For too many centuries the Eldar were allowed to pillage and plunder freely from the humble, innocent Emperor-fearing people of Lysander. Our wise and indefatigable Queen has put an end to their unimpeded deprivations, but still the Eldar remain in the system, a constant threat, a menace that cannot be ignored. And will not be ignored!" He thumped his fist down on the table.

"The time for defense is over. I hereby promise that I will take those ships that the Queen has gifted me for this purpose, led by my own _Unshakeable Will_ and I will take this war to the Eldar themselves! By the end of the next solar orbit they will be wiped out and their foothold into this system destroyed, never to allow their depravities to spill forth again. This I swear!"

L'Tarvius had picked his audience and their level of alcohol consumption well. The applause that met his words filled the cavernous dining hall and rang out to the stars themselves.

* * *

The dinner finished, guests were invited to stay for drinks on the observation deck. As they slowly filtered out of the dining hall, Jak found himself staring up at the magnificent tapestries depicting the system's history, as he savoured a piece of fruit that he'd pilfered from the table.

"That one is called 'The Arrival of Hope'. It has always been my favourite."

Jak turned to see the Queen at his side. There was no one else but him she could have been speaking to, but she looked up at the tapestry, not at Jak. The finely woven linen depicted two hooded figures. Their faces were hidden but they wore the habits of Imperial Missionaries. They were emerging from a ship –Jak noted that the artist had attempt to depict a sword class frigate but had got so many details wrong he had likely never seen one in his life- and they were presenting scrolls and tools to a determined looking man sporting a scowl and the same heraldry that the Queen herself displayed.

"An ancestor of yours?" He asked her, pointing to the scowling man.

"Yes, the first of our line of Kings. It was he who changed the name of the system from Demetrius to Lysander to symbolize the change in our path and our fortunes."

"And the other two chaps? I thought that L'Tarvius was the first visitor since founding?"

The Queen tapped a finger to her lips. "Indeed. Officially he was. The truth is somewhat tricker, something of a legend, shrouded in mystery. Supposedly, in our darkest hour, when our people were few and helpless to defend themselves against the Eldar, my ancestor was visited by strangers in their ship, the _Heartsease._ They offered him the knowledge and assistance he needed to overthrow the ruling dynasty and set us on the path of development which allowed us to grow and reach for the stars. We believe that the Emperor sent these angels to us, and that it is through their divine guidance that we were able to learn to defend ourselves and colonise the other planets in this system. _"_

"Fascinating," Jak said, more out of politeness than genuine interest. Old stories of divine intervention were convenient, but he suspected the Rogue Trader L'Tarvius had more to do with the system's rapid development than benevolent strangers of legend.

The subject moved away from Lysandrian mythology to Jak's naval experiences. The Queen's conversation was charming and inquisitive; she had all kinds of questions about his ships and strange notions about naval warfare that he was happy to correct her on, as well as a number of questions about what might be required from her planet to assist in the restocking of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Portentia_.

The Queen gently put her hands to the nape of her neck, and lifted her veil, revealing a handsome, slender face with sharp, intelligent eyes. She smiled demurely at the captain.

"I hope before you leave the system we might invite you down to the planet's surface. Nothing would make me happier than to show you her sights in person."

"I would like nothing more than to see Lysander close up, your majesty. If the whole of the planet is as beautiful as what I've seen so far, it must be truly special."

The Queen blushed, and Jak mentally patted himself on the back for his excellent diplomacy. She opened her mouth, appeared to hesitate for a moment, before speaking her true mind.

"I have an... informal request. I will be direct, for I believe you are, like L'Tarvius, a man of action and sympathetic to my position. However, you must understand that if it were to escape that we had spoken of this, I would be duty-bound to deny it."

"You want me to take the colonists away." Jak said.

The Queen nodded quickly, looking relieved at Jak's blunt words.

"They will cause nothing but disharmony and disunity in the system, at a time when she is most vulnerable."

"I don't control the colony ships your Highness. They have their own captains and those captains answer to Torsmond Benetor."

"Your Archdeacon. He is… a difficult man to converse with. I tried to reach out to him after our unfortunate meeting at the docks, but he has made demands that I simply cannot countenance."

"He's your Archdeacon now too, your majesty," Jak corrected her. He tossed his fruit up in the air and caught it, hiding a smile. Jak Velasquez, eating fresh fruit and talking politics with a Queen! How quickly his life had changed. Flushed with alcohol and confidence he pushed on.

"If I may speak candidly with you, your majesty, the Archdeacon has been a menace to my sanity and peace of mind for the past eighteen months. Lord-Captain L'Tarvius is free to call him an ass; the Warrant of Trade gives him that prerogative. But, as far as you and I are concerned, Benetor speaks with the voice of the Emperor. Resisting him openly will be costly. He has not come with an army, but he has come with five million faithful pilgrims. They may be just as bad."

The Queen nodded slowly, looking out the vista pane. She gently unfastened the clips at her temple that held her veil up.

"I see. Thank you for your honesty Lord-Captain. L'Tarvius has said much the same thing, but it is helpful to have it confirmed. Very well, we shall accept his colonists and I will deal with the Archdeacon as is appropriate."

"May I ask what that means, your majesty? What will you do with him?"

The Queen let her veil drop once more. She turned her gaze to him, her face unreadable again.

"Do you really care, Lord-captain Velasquez?"

He smiled and shrugged lightly. She had a point.

"Lord-captain L'Tarvius says that you come from a noble lineage." The Queen nimbly changed the subject.

"Noble-ish perhaps. The Velasquez name is an old one, but war and service spread the family across three Segmentums and we were never particularly successful in any of them. Too happy to throw ourselves onto the front line of any battle that was on offer."

"So you are a man who is not afraid to defend what it good and right."

"I am. Protector of the innocent and the good, that's me." He smiled his most winning smile. "And the beautiful." He added.

"Lord-captain Velasquez. You are forward, like L'Tarvius." The Queen flushed slightly again, the colour touching the very edges of her lips as she turned away from him. "I must tell you, that as a Queen of Lysander, I am married to my people. My heart is for them alone."

"Well then I am very jealous of them."

The Queen was polite enough to dignify his clumsy line with one last smile and place a hand on his arm. She nodded at a slimly built steward-servitor that was waiting patiently at a discreet distance from them.

"It has been most enjoyable conversing with you, Lord-captain Velasquez. But I should not monopolise you. I believe Lord-captain L'Tarvius would like a private conversation with you."

She left Jak alone at the vista pane, only the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. It was only as he shook his head to clear the strong smell away that a realisation struck Jak. He looked down at the core of the fruit in his hand.

The idle conversation the Queen had made, so charming and curious; it had been the perfect line of questioning to ascertain exactly the strength of Jak's fleet and its preparedness for battle.

* * *

"What did you think of her majesty? A most impressive system governor, don't you think?"

L'Tarvius glanced at Jak out of the corner of his eye as he poured Amasec and handed Jak a finely rolled Lho-cigar. They were in the Rogue Trader's stateroom, a room five times the size of Jak's great cabin with a magnificent vista bubble that allowed them an uninterrupted view of the busy work on the dockyards, including the careful docking of Jak's ships.

"She is impressive," Jak conceded. "But I think you may have promoted her accidentally. As far as the church and the Administratum are concerned she is a mere planetary governor. The other two planets are rogue colonies and the Archdeacon will want to appoint his own planetary governors."

L'Tarvius laughed. "I wish him luck if he wants to try. He will find her a more formidable opponent that he may have bargained on."

"I think opposition always comes as a surprise to the good Archdeacon," Jak admitted.

"Well he will have an interesting time of it with the Lysandrians. A stubborn and combative people I find, much to their credit."

"You know them well then? You seem to have invested a vast amount of time and resources in aiding these people, with little expectation of reward."

The older man gave him a sidelong look, and a smile as he lit Jak's cigar for him.

"You've no need to worry on the topic of tithe, my dear boy. The Lysandrians Imperial duties are yours to collect. I am here to help these people, not to impede your Emperor-blessed asset realisation.

But you might be relieved to know that I've contributed very little of my own wealth to the system's development. My dynasty is unhappy enough that I'm out here as is. I'm sure that they would have refused to send any more ships if I demanded them, and so I don't.

It is myself, my crew and my cruiser that I offered in the Queen's service. And a couple of escort ships, which sadly have been lost to the Dark Ones at this time. The expansion of the system they managed all on their own."

"The Queen tells me that angels from the Emperor gave them their first head start."

"Ha, yes, I've heard that story. Well, I'm sure her majesty is pleased that her people believe that. I suspect the truth is somewhat more prosaic. They developed so fast because they needed to. I've been all over the galaxy and one law always holds true. Show me a prosperous people and I will show you a history of bloodshed, terror, destruction and war. Nothing so hastens the footsteps of human development as the threat of utter annihilation."

There was little Jak could say in answer to that, so he said nothing. In thoughtful silence the two men watched through the vista bubble as the _Unshakeable Will_ made her stately orbit around the planet. Presently, the _Yolenna Symphony_ drew into view, and Jak knew that the Rogue Trader could see his visible swell of pride at the sight of his ship.

"She's a beautiful bird. Your first command?"

"Aye."

L'Tarvius smiled. It was a rich smile, generous and eager.

"There is no ship as beautiful as your first command. When I was young like you, I roamed the stars. I looked for plunder, trade, and adventure. Now, I am an older man and I seek something more. I seek a purpose."

"Is that why you came here?" Jak asked, probing the older man again. "To find your calling?"

L'Tarvius rapped one heavy hand against the plas-glass. "My calling? I have found my crusade! This will be my legacy, to free the people of the Lysander system. This is what I was gifted the Warrant of Trade for. This noble purpose."

"Then I wish you joy of it."

The older man gestured to a luxuriously cushioned chair, next to a fireplace. Jak found himself sinking into its embrace. L'Tarvius sat across from him, his eyes agleam in the light thrown by the fireplace.

"You will return to Calixis after this?" He asked. After having been so skillfully interrogated by the Queen, Jak found himself reluctant to give too much information to the Rogue Trader.

"Those are the orders of the Letter of Marque." He said.

"Ah, but there are orders and then there are orders are there not? If I recall correctly, the Letter of Marque gives you some freedom to take actions that will be... to the profit and prosperity of the Imperium. To read between the lines and decide for yourself what is in the best interests of your ship and your Emperor. Am I wrong?"

"No. You are most correct."

"Of course I am. Otherwise you would not have had the temerity to continue on after your father died mid-voyage. And then, when you return, you must reaffirm the Letter of Marque, yes?"

"Perhaps. I have elder siblings who will have better claims to it."

L'Tarvius seemed to consider that, staring at the crackling fire. It seemed to Jak that a multitude of unspoken words were passing between himself and the older Rogue Trader. Finally, L'Tarvius spoke.

"It is a heady thing."

Thinking that L'Tarvius meant the Amasec, Jak took a gulp and nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

"It's a fine vintage," he said. The Rogue Trader burst out laughing.

"Not the drink, my dear boy, the power! The freedom that the Letter of Marque gives you. To choose your own path, to rely on your own judgement and thirst for life to guide a hundred thousand souls to glory or death. King of an Iron Kingdom, answerable to no one but yourself. Am I wrong?"

Jak smiled into his amasec. "No. You are most correct."

"Of course I am! How many free men are there in the galaxy, truly? Madmen, High Lords and us. Here at the bleeding edge of space."

He raised his glass in salute, and Jak did the same.

"To the only free men in the galaxy." L'Tarvius intoned. "You have the Letter of Marque, my dear boy. The only question is, how will you choose to use it? The enemies of mankind are about us. The horns of crusade are calling. Will you heed them?"

In the dark and warmth of the luxuriously appointed cabin, aboard one of the greatest warships Jak had ever seen, he sat and considered the question.

The hum of the ship at rest was as loud as Jak had ever heard. In the low light of the great cabin, the ember at the end of his cigar glowed a solar orange.


	11. Part 2- Chapter 9

**Chapter 5**

Thousands of well-wishers gathered on the orbital docks to see off the avenging crusaders of the Lysandrian Armada depart. Ships filled the void. It was not the controlled chaos of typical orbital traffic, but an arrowhead formation of vessels, every prow pointed towards the same goal. At the head of the armada flew the _Unshakeable Will_. The ancient, formidable grand cruiser fired a bombastic salute to the people of Lysander at it passed, gun after gun sounding off in perfect sequence.

Following her flew the next largest ship in the armada, the _Yolenna Symphony_. The light cruiser's squadrons of bombers and fighters ran fly-overs of the docks, swooping so close that people in the crowd swore they could see the pilots' faces, despite the impossibility of this being true through the darkened viewports.

The _Portentia_ glided smoothly in to form up on the opposite flank of the _Unshakeable Will_. As she passed, she fired all thirteen of her rear thrusters simultaneously, creating a white hot glow that momentarily blinded the crowd. As the irradiated exhaust fell towards the dockyards, it caused the yard's void shields to flare with rippling auroras of dancing colour that drew gasps from the appreciative crowd.

The _Siren's Wail_ came next, with possibly the best trick of them all. As ancient control moment gyroscopes rotated in their shells, she performed a slow, stately aileron roll, rotating all the way around on her axis in a manoeuvre that sent the crowd into rapturous applause. Few ships still possessed the ability to roll on their axis in such controlled fashion and the Siren's crew were particularly adept at the trick.

The rest of the armada, slaves to the tyranny of reaction mass equations, were more conservative in their departures, but they received no less acclaim as they left. These were the real ships of Lysander: a motley assembly of brigs, couriers, haulers, and miners that had each been retrofitted with whatever armour and ordnance they could safely carry. Following them came the support ships, tenders and fuel haulers, receiving the same send-off from those watching as the great warships at the fore of the armada.

All were headed to do battle with the ancient foe. The Dark Kin, Eldar slavers that had been allowed to commit their depravities within the Lysander system for too long. They departed with the hopeful cheers, shouted well wishes and fervent prayers of the Lysandrian people in their ears, voxed in from the dockyards and broadcast across every deck on every ship so that all on board from the captains to the bondsmen could hear.

In his great cabin, Jak flipped a switch on the vox, silencing the cheering crowd. He drummed his fingers on the solid wood of his desk, restless as he contemplated his most recent impulsive decision. Finally he flicked a button and voxed the bridge.

"Ms Jate, have Mr Yurghan and Mr Sinkmoss join me on the Yolenna at their earliest convenience."

* * *

The two men stood before him within the hour. This was Jak's first opportunity to have the captains of the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Portentia_ standing before him since taking command. Neither had ventured any unprompted opinion so far on his leadership or the suspicions that still surrounded his father's death. Indeed he had found both easy to deal with in day to day matters of fleet logistics, and exemplary in their undertaking of his orders during the fleet's first clash with the Eldar. That gave him some comfort, as they would be vital for the success of the Lysandrian armada and the crusade that Jak had committed them to.

Looking at the two captains, Jak reflected on the fact that these were the men he would need to rely on implicitly in the action to come. The two could not have been more different.

Bream Yurghan was a hunched, vigorous, older man, with wild white hair sticking up in loose tufts from his head, and eyes permanently roaming as if looking for some unknown threat. Half his face had been wrecked in some long-forgotten battle, and was held together with unvarnished metal augmentation. He paced as he spoke, even in front of his commander, and had a tendency to look at you over his shoulder as if from some better vantage he would see your true form.

In his later years, he had been written off by the Admiralty as a victim of warp-madness or the loneliness of command; an aging, addled casualty of the demands of naval life. The late Admiral Velasquez had seen something more to him though, had seen those eyes snap to attention when addressing the Captain's throne, and the wheezy quaver leave his voice as he barked out perfect orders.

In battle Bream Yurghan became something more than the sum of his broken parts. Yurghan wasn't mad, it was the world around him that was, and when it revealed its true depravations, he thrived amidst chaos that would sink lesser captains.

Yurghan had been appointed first officer beneath Mustek, but with his brother still out of action, Jak was more than happy to see the old warrior in charge of the _Siren's Wail_. He had taken to the Captain's cupola capably and efficiently.

Gerdal Sinkmoss could not have been more different from Yurghan in appearance and background. The young nobleman was old Scintillian aristocracy, and in any other situation would likely have treated the benighted Velasquez name with scorn, despite the breadth and history of Jak's House. The Velasquezs were a much reduced family, spread across three segmentums, with only a handful of survivors remaining. The Sinkmosses on the other hand were old Scintilla, rich, proud and multitudinous.

Whip thin and smarter than his chinless scowl made him look, Sinkmoss stood with a ramrod straightness that could convince you he'd served in the navy. But Gerdal was the fifth son of a minor branch of House Sinkmoss, and his parents had not been able to secure a commission for him. He had only ever captained freighters, and although by all reports he'd captained them well, it was a mystery to Jak why his father had offered the young man a position in the fleet, not to mention why the nobleman had deigned to accept it.

Nevertheless, Sinkmoss had acquitted himself well over the voyage, and despite his pride and prickliness, Jak was confident that the young captain could manage his destroyer in the heat of battle.

"Gentleman," Jak said, spreading his hands across the table as he'd seen his father do so many times, "the situation is this: The Eldar possess a Warp Gate, a solid-standing portal to whatever foul plane they dwell in. It is based deep in the asteroid field between Lysander VII and Lysander VIII. Captain L'Tarvius has its location as well as the disposition of the enemy, and he is confident that the _Unshakeable Will_ is up to the task of destroying them, removing the Dark Kin's access to the system. But until our arrival he had lacked the escort ships necessary to secure the _Unshakable Will_ 's path to the Warp Gate."

"So he needs us," Sinkmoss observed. Yurghan seemed to start at the younger man's words, but continued pacing silently.

"Indeed." Jak continued. "The path to the Warp Gate is protected by artificial asteroid headwaters, two fortresses and three torture cruisers, not to mention a dozen or more smaller vessels."

"How does L'Tarvius know this?" Yurghan asked.

"He has spent the last three years building up intelligence regarding the source of the Eldar threat in the system. I have personally looked over the work of his intelligence agents and it seems credible, highly credible."

"Sir, the Eldar only let you see what they want you to see," Yurghan's face twisted as he spoke, a spasm in his jaw tugged at the edge of his bio-circuitry, perhaps in reaction to some dark memory that had bubbled unbidden to the surface.

"L'Tarvius lost two of his escort ships in recovering this intelligence, Yurghan. I am as sceptical as any man, but he got this information the hard way. As I said, he is confident that together the _Unshakeable Will_ and _Yolenna Symphony_ can manage the Eldar ships and destroy the Warp Gate. Your roles will be in reaching and destroying the two fortresses that guard our approach to the gate."

He continued. "I believe the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Portentia_ will be the perfect vessels for dealing with these forts. Whilst the _Unshakeable Will_ and _Yolenna Symphony_ engage the greater part of their force, you will each take on the task of destroying one of the forts guarding our approach. With those threats neutralised, we will advance to destroy their warp gate, and banish the Eldar from the system personally."

Sinkmoss clicked his heels together, and Yurghan gave a smile. Jak had gauged their response to his plan correctly. Their last battle with the Eldar had left them eager for more, and the opportunity to be involved in such a fleet action, against three cruisers and with the fate of a system at stake was too enticing to pass up.

"Gentleman, I offered my assistance to the Lysandrian people because it is our duty, but also because I believe that it is our best chance for advancement. Captain L'Tarvius intends to remain in the system after the battle. He will not begrudge our returning to Calixis with the holo-logs of the action."

Both men were too well mannered to let their emotions show at that, but Jak could see whatever resistance they still held to the crusade leave them. The acclaim that would attach itself to whoever brought word back to the Admiralty in the Calixis Sector of a successful fleet action this size, well, that might just be enough to see both men in navy blue and promoted to post-captain.

"An unusually generous gesture for a Rogue Trader," Sinkmoss observed.

"Yes. I'm afraid I don't see what Captain L'Tarvius intends to gain from all of this." Yurghan said.

"Gentleman, I rather gather that he intends to gain little, if anything. He seems to be aiding these people from a sense of noble duty. He genuinely believes in this Crusade."

Yurghan gave a start at that, and blinked violently at Jak. Sinkmoss looked sceptical. Jak raised his hands.

"Gentlemen, I know. Believe me I know. But I take him at his word. He truly seeks no profit in this. Insane that may sound, but I believe he is genuine, if eccentric. He wants a crusade. He wants to save the system. And I believe it is in our interest to assist him."

Both men nodded in agreement. They had taken gambles with their careers and with their very futures by agreeing to follow Oberon Velasquez. If Jak lost the Letter of Marque, there was no knowing when they might command their own ships again. But if Jak returned as the saviour of the Lysander System, with Sinkmoss and Yurghan having played vital roles in the destruction of an Eldar Warp Gate, there was no telling what opportunities for advancement might await.

"Gentleman. We are the bayonet that will be thrust into the heart of the Eldar slavers. I don't need to tell you that this battle could be the making of us. So tell me, what is the state of your ships?"

Yurghan spoke first.

"The _Siren's Wail_ has been running more smoothly since the restock, Sir. We've had serious issues with the underdeck mutant population all voyage, but those have calmed somewhat since we reached Lysander and I have instigated a thorough purge to lower the mutant levels. Similarly, the aggravated machine spirits appear to have been calmed and we are reporting far fewer malfunctioning systems across the ship. Still, the restock was far shorter than was required to make all the necessary repairs, nor were we able to replenish our numbers of bondsmen from the planet's population. Our gun crews are not what they could be."

Jak nodded. This was all known to him and positive news for the most part. But Yurghan went on.

"I mention, without complaint, Captain, that a significant portion of my ward room has moved to the _Yolenna Symphony_ in recent times, including my Master of Vox Reliquary Jate, Chief Chirugeon Erasmus Borelyle, and my Keeper of the Purse Rollyk No-Koll."

Yurghan placed the list of names quite gently on Jak's desk. Jak waved a hand dismissively, as he glanced at paper.

"Jate is essential aboard the flagship, Captain Yurghan. She's the best Vox-master we have and I want her where she'll do the most good. I also want to keep the Chief Chirugeon with my brother here on board the Yolenna. He's our most experienced doctor, and the Yolenna has the best medicae vault. Nothing is more important to me than my brother's health. I will discuss with Erasmus sending over more of his assistants to make up the Siren's complement."

He considered the last name for a brief moment.

"It was my father who brought your purser over. I honestly don't know why. You may have him back, but we'll organise that transfer after the fleet action."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Sinkmoss, how fares the _Portentia_?"

"The only concern to register is our torpedo allotment. The _Portentia_ is a torpedo boat with only three operational torpedos left."

"Then we will have to use them wisely Mr Sinkmoss. Lysander may be more advanced than we had expected but they certainly do not have the manufacturing resources to provide us with torpedos. One will be sufficient to destroy your target, and you will have support from the gunships in our little armada to keep any Eldar irritants off your back."

"As you say, Sir" Sinkmoss gave a small bow off acknowledgement. "Apart from that, we have kept a tangibly tighter ship, with no issues in engineering or personnel to report."

Sinkmoss was too aristocratic to be subtle. Jak could see Yurghan visibly bristle at the obvious slight. From the reports that Al Dessi provided him, it was all a front as well. Sinkmoss was struggling with an aging destroyer, far past her prime and ready for mothballing before his father had swept her up at a discounted price. Her officers were an uninspiring lot, who'd agreed to join the privateer fleet because they couldn't imagine leaving the ship they had served all their lives on.

Still, if Sinkmoss wanted to tell his commander that all was well, that was fine with Jak, just as long as the young captain wasn't naïve enough to believe it. He'd seen ships in far worse shapes pull themselves together when the rigours of war demanded it, but this was entirely dependent on the leadership of a strong captain. He would just have to hope that Sinkmoss was that captain.

"Very well gentleman. I'm glad to hear the Siren is tightening up. I'm authorising the transfer of two torpedos from the _Siren's Wail_ to the _Portentia_. I will leave it to your Ordnance Masters arrange the logistics. I will let you return to your ships. Keep the gun crews training daily, and I would recommend that your officers review our last battle with the Eldar."

* * *

Jak wished that all those who served him had responded as enthusiastically to this crusade as Yurghan and Sinkmoss. His wardroom had been a sea of poker faces, except for Stieg, who had no talent for hiding his emotions and had openly scowled at the news. Jak knew what this meant. He didn't have their full support yet. Sinkmoss and Yurghan had their stars hitched to Jak's and would rise or fall with him, but the wardroom didn't yet trust his judgement.

He'd delivered the colony fleet safely, defeated the Eldar in ship-to-ship battle and taken a valuable prize, but he still hadn't won over his officers. The thought played on his mind as he walked the ship's passageways, alone for once. He hadn't wanted his bodyguards with him for the visit that he was about to make.

"Mr Velasquez!"

Jak turned to see the hunched figure of the Keeper of the Purse following behind as he walked to the ship's sick bay. The little man clicked and clattered frantically as he walked, the cheap augments of his trade banging against each other as they bobbed behind his head.

"Lord Velasquez." Jak said.

The man hesitated. "I'm sorry?"

"Or Lord-Captain Velasquez if you're feeling formal. I don't mind either way, but you're aboard a rogue trader vessel now, Mr No Koll, not in some dusty merchant hall on Scintilla." Jak grinned, looking about the Yolenna's cramp and grimy passageway. "Well, we're not _too_ dusty. It's _Lord_ , not _Mister_."

"Ah." The Keeper seemed to take a moment to process the casual reprimand. Not all rogue trader captains demanded that the title be used, but the Keeper of the Purse annoyed Jak for reasons that he could not put words to. "Well. Yes. Lord Velasquez. I wanted to speak to you regarding this, ah, crusade."

"Now isn't the time to discuss budgets, Mr No Koll."

"It is not a matter of budgets, my Lord. We should not be doing this at all! This crusade lacks any kind of sensible cost-benefit analysis!"

"Cost-benefit analysis?"

"The loss of crew and munitions! The waste of valuable resources! Risking the ships! I cannot recommend against it strongly enough. There is no sensible profit assessment of the potential benefits that would lead you to invest your resources in such an uncertain enterprise."

Jak looked at the Keeper in shock.

"Sensible assessment? How can you think like that man? Where's your sense of adventure? Of destiny?"

The Keeper frowned.

"Destiny? This is simple mathematics my Lord."

"Mathematics?"

"It can help to think of it like that."

Jak shook his head, still baffled by the calculating, passionless little man. "Your reluctance is noted Mr No Koll, but seeing as Keepers play no role in my decision making regarding where my ship goes and what it does when I get there, it doesn't really matter a damn. I would suggest you go back to counting your beans."

He turned to leave, but the Keeper was not done. Her grabbed Jak by the elbow frantically.

"Mr- Lord-Captain Velasquez, my Lord, I must insist! I cannot be of assistance to you as Keeper of the ship's purse, if you will not heed my advice."

Jak looked at the little man, sweating profusely and leaking lubricating fluid around the valves where his bionics met the skin.

"Mr No Koll. Take your hand off me immediately before I break it and have you in front of the Board of Judgement."

The Keeper gave a gulp of shock. His hand left Jak's arm like it had suddenly caught fire.

"Good." Jak continued. "Mr No Koll, I will have you shipped back to the _Siren's Wail_ immediately."

If Rollyk No Koll had looked pale before, his face went positively grey at that news.

"No, my Lord, please. I am the fleet Purser. Please don't send me back to the… no. I apologise, I have spoken out of turn I see that now."

The little man was backing away down the corridor. Jak pointed a finger at him.

"Pack your bags Mr No Koll." He called out. "After we've destroyed the Eldar warp gate, you're going back to the Siren."

He turned away, ignoring the expression of anguish on No Koll's face. He had little time to wonder at why the Keeper so dreaded being return to the frigate. His meeting with Captain Yurghan had reminded him of how long it had been since he had visited his brother. Guilt propelled him forward as he went to check in on the former captain of the _Siren's Wail_.

Mustek still lay unconscious, and on life support, but he looked better than he had after his accident. Burned, ruined flesh had been replaced by puffy pink new skin, and his face had taken on an appearance of peacefulness. Jak looked down at him through the murky green window of the sarcophagus.

"Can't you lift the lid, just for a moment?"

Erasmus Borelyle, the chief chirugeon, shook his head. "It's a hermetically sealed environment, Sir. It's highly oxygenated and free from disease. If he were to be exposed to the outside environment he would be vulnerable to infection. I keep him sedated, to save him the pain. He will not awaken until his skin has knitted fully."

"It will knit?"

"If we were planetside, with resources available to properly rejuvenate him, I would tell you that he could be back on his feet in a matter of days. But here?" He gestured to the dark, cramped confines of the ward and let that speak for itself.

"With rest and stability he will heal. But if there is another battle, we might see damage to the sarcophagus or an interruption to power. I can make no promises that your brother would survive it."

"You don't need to lecture me on the risks Mr Borelyle, I am well aware of them." He responded with less irritation than he had to the Keeper of the Purse's nonsense. Lecturing the captain about safety was a ship chirugeon's prerogative.

"Of course, my Lord. Then permit me to mention one more thing. Your newest crewmember, the young priest that you rescued from the Explorator vessel."

"What of her?"

"Have you ever heard the term Genitari?"

"No."

"I had to ask around myself. It is an obscure sect within the Adeptus Mechanicus. They revere parenthood."

"What?" Jak glanced up from staring down at his brother's sleeping face. "What's the relevance of this, doctor?"

"You are aware of the many divisions within the Adeptus Mechanicus?"

"No. Are there? Funny, I always thought that a red robe was a red robe."

"Yes, and when I first became a naval chirugeon I didn't know the difference between a guncutter and battlecruiser. Do not let lower deck prejudices blind you, Captain. There are as many divisions within the Cult Mechanicus as there are within the Imperial Navy. Our Enginseer Prime, for example, is a conservative. And since your father's contract was with him, the vast majority of the Engineering deck are his people."

"But the new girl isn't."

"No, the young woman is a Genitari, one of the most radical sects with the Cult. The Mechanicus clone their children. Some may know their parents perhaps, but few ever really have a relationship with them. They are taught from a young age that the Omnissiah is their true father, and that family is a restriction of their purpose within the Great Machine. The Genitari reject that. They believe that parenthood is vital in the moulding of a young mind into a worthy tool of the Omnissiah."

"That's fascinating doctor, truly, but why are you telling me all this?"

"The Genitari are not well thought of by Dhukov and his people. They consider it one step above outright heresy. Moreover I think that he is making life difficult for the little priest."

Jak rapped his knuckles in irritation against his brother's sarcophagus.

"So, Dhukov doesn't like Genitari."

Archmagos Dhukov was a difficult man to deal with. Like most Chief Enginseers, he was protective of his territory and indifferent to the captain's authority. Moreover, Jak had recently learned that the contract which Dhukov had signed with his father had been front-loaded, and badly miscalculated by the Adeptus Mechanicus. The longer the fleet stayed out, the more money the Archmagos was losing, and he had been spiralling into debt since before they had reached the Starveling System.

His Keeper of the Purse should have told Jak all of this. Instead it was Ravenna Al Dessi who had uncovered it, and warned him that it would be rankling the Chief Enginseer, particularly with the announcement that the fleet was joining the L'Tarvius crusade.

Jak had instructed Dhukov to treat the survivor of the rescued Explorator ship as one of his own. If there was a chance the Chief Enginseer was using this as an opportunity to flaunt his independence then it was a problem. For a moment he was tempted to treat it as someone else's problem. But if there was one lesson that he had learnt since his father's death, it was that everything was the Lord-Captain's problem.

"Thank you doctor. Leave it with me."

* * *

Maternin Shyendi stood in front of the geometric knot of right-angled piping that made up the Waste Retrieval Network Junction Shrine 16-75-14. Head bowed over her prayer book, she read from the _Invocations of Gaseous Spirits Under Duress._

"We look, oh Machine God, to the dial for guidance. We trust in your hand to make its needle show true. Sixty shall be the number that it points to. Fifty shall not be a number that it falls below, nor shall it lift above seventy. Strong shall be the flow and clear shall be the pipes."

Across from her, a second priest, Sharpeii Rho 40, monitored the choler of the junction's machine spirit via the wobbling dial of the pressure gauge.

"And lo, the number is Sixty Six. So it shall be written and we give thanks for the peace of the Omnissiah upon this humble shrine to the spirits of flow."

There were tens of thousands of systems aboard the ship that needed to be monitored each watch. It was a constant drudgery of log keeping and maintenance rituals any one of which might highlight a critical failure that could threaten the survival of all the crew, not to mention the ship itself. The crew worked in pairs, either two tech priests together or a priest and a mechwright, to ensure that the work was done properly and to the book. One would hold a copy of the prayer manual and read from it, whilst the other would perform the required maintenance ritual. Every component of every piece of equipment was maintained by a specific chant, the rhythm, pitch and wording of which was essential to the proper conducting of the maintenance ritual.

Maternin could not delude herself that she was a welcome member of the Enginarium. She was ostracised at meals and during prayers, and her fellow priests would happily throw a kick her way if they thought no Lachrimalli were watching. But she did the work, competently and without complaint, and nothing was more important than that aboard a void ship. She did not believe that she would ever be accepted, but perhaps she would be tolerated.

A thunderous roar from a distant weapons battery sent the whole ship shaking for a moment. Sharpeii Rho 40 straightened up in irritation, the sensory icons across her facemask flickering as she directed her attention to the noise and vibration.

"They drill the ship for battle daily," she said to Maternin, as if this were some grave sin.

"She is a war ship," Maternin said. "Battle is her purpose."

Sharpeii Rho 40 gave her a long look. Her lower jaw had been removed and mechanical parts covered her face to her nose, but her eyes remained human and deeply expressive

"The Enginseer Primaris teaches us that the ship is to be revered for its perfect nature, and that to risk it in war for anything less than the attainment of new knowledge or technology is a grievous waste." In Sharpeii Rho 40's accented binary, the word waste held the same meaning as the word evil. "We will all serve penitence when we return to the Iron Realms, for we have contributed to the decay of this most noble of machines."

It was the most words that any tech priest had said to Maternin since she had been taken aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_ , and she felt compelled to answer honestly, with her own beliefs.

"Machinery's nobility is in its purpose. A ship is only truly a ship when it is in flight. A warship is only truly a warship when it is in battle."

Sharpeii Rho 40 shook her head, sadly. "I should not have expected understanding from a Genitari. Your kind has no use for perfection. You believe that the Omnissiah did not gift us the knowledge of the ancients to preserve and cherish. You believe that we have to go and create new knowledge, spitting in the face of all that is whole and true."

"That's not true."

"It is, Experimentor." Sharpeii Rho 40 said, but without the same malice that others had used the insult. She went back to studying the pipe system intently. Maternin knew that her views regarding the ship's current purpose would be shared by much of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Their guarded hostility towards their captain was obvious to Maternin everywhere she looked, although perhaps you had to be Mechanicum to see it.

A Noospheric tag above the sewerage flow direction lever bore the words _The Machine Endures the Poor Workman;_ a piece of graffiti that Maternin had seen in numerous places about the ship. It seemed obvious to her that the words were aimed at the ship's captain. But few aboard the Yolenna Symphony who weren't of the Cult Mechanicus possessed the technological augmentation necessary to see in the augmented visual information field known as the noosphere, so perhaps the captain and his officers remained unaware of this unrest.

"Experimentor!" The word had not come from Sharpeii Rho 40 this time. It had come from the hatch leading down from the upper deck. Maternin took a step back from the altar where they had been working and looked both ways down the passageway.

It was Timmon. Maternin had not seen the overseer since the discovery of the gun in the plasma vent chamber. He seemed to have fallen out of favour with Enginseer Primaris since then, and been assigned lower duties. Now he stood at the base of the ladder, carrying a shock prod loosely in one hand as he pointed the other at Maternin in accusation.

"Experimentor!" He called again. "You think you've beaten me? Humiliated me in front of my Archmagos?"

Maternin felt her stomach tighten, and her brain begin to cycle through rudimentary threat analyses and combat protocols. She gave a signal of confused denial in binary. "How have I humiliated you? When did I do anything except attempt to undertake your orders as instructed?"

He blasted a static roar of rage and accusation at her, lurching forwards. The shock prod sparked a vicious electric purple in the dim light of the passageway. Maternin's combat wetware was basic and she was unprepared for this attack. As Timmon leapt to strike her, she froze. But before Timmon could reach her, a great shape dropped down from the hatch above, unfolding into a creature so tall its head scraped the deck above. With one great, clawed hand it snatched the tech priest out of the air and hurled him against the bulkhead.

Maternin gaped, stunned at how the beast in front of her could have moved so quickly. It was at least seven and a half feet tall and covered in thickly matted fur, approximately 80% of which was brown and green, suggesting a primarily arboreal or perhaps troglobitic origin. Its legs, jointed for springing, and its lightning fast speed suggested a predator, as did the long fangs in its trisected jaw. Its four upper limbs each ended in opposable digits, suggesting that it had evolved for tool use if not true sentience.

A xenos. And a fascinating discovery, one that Maternin would have been eager to learn more about, if not for the sheer terror of watching it pluck Timmon mid-stride and hurl the overseer violently into the bulkhead.

The Lachrimallus bounced off with a shuddering metallic clang, but to his credit managed to stumble to his feet after the immense blow. The xenos caught him on the rebound with a punch to his faceplate that lifted him clear off his feet, and a second to the solar plexus that left him a crumpled heap on the ground.

The xenos seemed to experience no ill effect from punching the tech adept in his armoured chest plate. It barely paused as the groaning overseer collapsed to the deck. It turned to Maternin, and opened its slavering mouth. Ropes of thick saliva drooled from its long, prehensile tongue.

"Art thou the Adeptus Mechanicus, Maternin Shyendi?"

Of all the things that her threat analyses had suggested would come next, this polite question, in oddly accented gothic, had not been considered a possibility worth planning for. Temporarily at a loss, she could think of nothing to do but answer.

"I am." In her current state of confusion and fear, it came out more like a question than a statement.

"Thy captain has required attendance. Art to come with us immediately."

A second figure appeared behind the xenos. He was a far more reassuring sight, an elderly, overweight man wearing the jacket of an Imperial Guard officer. He had a red, round face, and great moustaches that hung down over his jowls. He slumped forward like he'd been stuffed in a sack, and to an unaugmented eye might have looked completely harmless. But Maternin's gaze took in the thick insulating cables that ran from the back of his skull to his shoulders; Primary grade muscle reflex boosting augmentations, if she was any judge. They looked well cared for. This man might be just as dangerous as the xenos.

"We're under orders to take you to meet the captain Miss," the fat man said. "You're excused from your duties for the rest of the watch." He looked down with casual curiosity at the folded heap of Timmon's body.

"Take that man's name, hey?" He murmured and then shook his head. He turned to Sharpeii Rho 40. "This one's to come with us. She'll be back by eight bells. Tell your chief to keep a tighter lid on his whip-crackers," he pointed at Timmon's prone form, "or they'll be by the Board on Judgement Day. Clear?"

Sharpeii Rho 40 nodded wordlessly.

"Good." The armsman pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long swig from it, still thoughtfully examining the unconscious tech priest on the deck. "Bloody well done though, Jestross. You're not getting any slower in your old age."

The horrifying creature gave a snuffling, clacking laugh. The guardsman shrugged and took another swig from his flask.

"Right, time's a-wasting. Let's go see the captain."

* * *

To her surprise Maternin was taken to the armsmens' mess, a cavernous vault lined with cramped tables, half of which were filled with hunched and hungry sailors wolfing down rations as quickly as they could before their next watch started.

She recognised the captain, of course. She didn't think she would ever forget the moment of their meeting. An instant away from her certain death he had appeared, streaked with sweat and smiling as he stood over the Eldar corpse.

Now he sat, sprawled at ease at one of the tables. All the tables around him were empty except for the one directly behind his back, at which two armed guards sat, eyes watchfully scanning the mess hall. When he noticed Maternin, Captain Velasquez gave a broad, crooked smile and gestured to the stool across from him. She sat, and her escorts took seats with the two bodyguards at the other table.

"Tech-adept Shyendi isn't it?" His smile, Maternin realised, was genuine, not feigned. Adepts of the Cult Mechanicus rarely smiled, if they even had their original mouths left. If they did smile, it was in a cold, calculated fashion designed to put those not connected to the Great Machine at ease. But the captain's smile reached his eyes, and made Maternin want to smile herself for the first time since her parents had died.

"I never had the opportunity to thank you for rescuing me, my Lord. I was not sure if it would have been a breach of propriety to attempt to contact you."

He waved a hand airily, dismissing her anxieties.

"Think nothing of it. How have you been faring since you came aboard? Has my Chief Enginseer been taking care of you?"

"Very well, thank-you, my Lord. I have received a most sufficient succour in the Enginarium."

"You had those, what do you call them? Metal tentacles. You had those before, didn't you?"

"Mechadendrites. Yes, I did, my Lord."

"What happened to them?"

Maternin hesitated, but she could not see a reason to lie to the ship's captain.

"The Enginseer Primaries decreed that they be removed. He disputed my rank and right to wear the augmentations."

"Your rank, yes. You're a Lexmechanic third rate, am I correct?"

"Tertiary grade, yes my Lord. I sat at the fifteen tier, aboard the _Vonaznaniya-17.8._ If I may ask, my Lord, how did you know that?"

"I might not know a lot about you red robes, but I do know a wasted asset when I see one. I had my people look up the ship's list on your former vessel. And Dhukov has you doing what?"

"Duties commensurate with my rank and seniority aboard _this_ ship, my Lord."

The captain tilted his head back, his long black hair hanging down the back of his seat as he addressed the men behind him.

"Borjean, what was Adept Shyendi doing when you found her?"

"Backwashing a shit pipe, Sir," the man with the white moustaches raised a cup as he spoke. The captain barked a laugh and swung his head back up to look Maternin in the eyes, flicking his hair out of his face.

"You're wasted on sewerage distribution, adept. I think we both know that."

"I serve however it pleases the Enginseer Primaris, my Lord."

"Sir."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's Sir to you, Shyendi. You're not some civilian Keeper who needs to call me Lord all the time. You're crew. And so is the Enginseer Prime for that matter. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

The captain paused for a moment, considering his next words. He didn't appear to be a cautious speaker, just a curious man who was deciding what to ask about next.

"I didn't realise Mechanicus had parents."

Maternin blinked.

"Where did you think we came from, Sir?" The captain laughed. Maternin regretted her quick tongue, but it seemed that the Captain did not mind direct responses. She found herself warming to him.

"Borjean?" He called out. "Where do tech priests come from?"

"I always thought a randy fabricator machine spat them out."

All those nearby, except for Maternin, laughed. Even the xenos gave a harsh, clacking laugh, a couple of seconds behind the others.

"Procreation is a messy, organic process," Maternin explained, "and many of the Cult Mechanicus do not have time for it, let alone for parenting. New members are vat-born and neurally implanted with relevant education. My people, Genitari, reject that approach. We believe that the Great Machine Spirit is born between component pieces working towards a shared goal. Rearing the next generation, doing so personally, is a crucial part of that. My parents believed that the forging of a young mind is as delicate and important as the forging of a tool."

"Your parents were aboard the _Vonaznaniya-17.8?_ "

"Yes, Sir. The Eldar murdered them just before you arrived. My parents were… good people, Sir." She felt an obligation to make that clear. "They died in service to the Cult Mechanicus and the Omnissiah."

"I know. And I'm sorry I couldn't get there sooner. But I may be able to make some small amends." He leaned forward, across the table. "Adept Shyendi, how do you feel about helping us to kill every last Eldar in this system?"

* * *

Jak studied the little tech priest as she considered his question. She possessed was a sharp, elfin face, with an upturned nose and fine, pale features. The only hint at all that she was Mechanicus was her eyes. They were grey. Not a soft, natural grey, but gunmetal grey. Irises made of fine plated discs set in concentric circles spun, almost imperceptibly, as her gaze shifted and her focused changed. She seemed have been struck by his question, and took some time to answer.

"I would like that very much, Sir." She said.

Jak grinned and pushed himself to his feet. Behind him, his guard and Jestross stood up as well.

"Very good." He said. "Then I'm assigning you to the bridge. We'll need all hands to the targeting cogitators against the Eldar and I think you've got the eye for it."

"Yes, Sir." The little tech priest didn't smile, but she stood up and bowed from the waist, in the Machine Cult style. "Ave Deus Mechanicus."

"Ave, indeed. Any questions, Lexmechanic?"

The little priest blinked her disarming grey eyes, and then suddenly her attention swung to Jestross.

"What are you?" She asked, abruptly.

Everyone seemed to freeze. Jak turned to look at his chef; all eyes were on the lanky, hulking xenos, even those of armsmen from six tables away. It seemed that a lot of people had been eavesdropping on the captain's conversation.

"You want to know what Jestross is?" Jak asked, surprised. People generally shied away from the xenos in fear or tried to pretend that he didn't exist. Direct questions were out of the ordinary.

"I am aware of over 4500 sentient and sub-sentient species, but yours is not one of them. To remain ignorant when the opportunity for enlightenment stands before you is a sin."

Jak glanced from Borjean to Jestross then shrugged.

"Tell the young lady about your abominable self," he said to his chef.

Jestross leaned down to study the face of the tech priest.

"Thy Imperium knows my species as Jerikyl. Jerikyl home wast xenocided by one Oberon Velasquez. Our planet made a wasteland. Our people a diaspora."

"Why would you agree to serve on board a ship with a captain that destroyed your planet?"

Jestross made a snuffling sound of confusion.

"Why wouldst one not travel with the captain? He ordered that one serve so one served. Now one serves his son."

"So you did not hate him for what he did?"

The xenos gave a complicated four-armed shrug. Many of the crew were leaning in to listen. No one had dared ask these questions before, but many had thought them.

"On my world many lived as one pride, thousands led by the pride-leader. Thy pride-leader rules with strength and will. He will kill thou if thou makes him angry, or if thou art from the wrong litter, so thou hates him. He makes thou fight and will tear your head off if thou art a coward. So thou fears him. But he will lead the fight as the strongest warrior and he will keep thou safe as well, in the dark caves. In the deep caves. So thou loves him. It is HateFearLove. Thou canst smell it, on each and every member of the pride. It is a fine smell."

His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth as he explained the emotion.

"So you served Captain Velasquez because he smelled like a pride-leader."

"Admiral Velasquez? Yes. Smell ist important. Thou can taste truth in a smell better than thou can see it. Thou can tell true leader from false leader in a smell. So one was happy to be aboard."

"But everyone on board hates you. They think that you're an abomination. They're glad that they killed your world."

Jestross shook his head, and gave his coughing laugh.

"One does not mind the taste of hate. Hate ist not a bad smell. Important thing ist that all in the pride smells the same way. Everyone hates together, everyone fears together. Everyone loves together, like a pride." He raised two of his hands to the ceiling, and reached two out to the tech priest. "It ist a good thing, this together smell."

"Right, question time is over, I think," Jak said, finding himself feeling uncomfortable and not quite knowing why. "You are dismissed, Adept Shyendi."

Jak returned to his great cabin in silence. He had never heard Jestross say so many words at once. Hate, fear, love. The words played on his mind repetitively, like a drumbeat.

At the door to his great cabin, his guards left him to take their place watching the threshold. He and Jestross entered alone. Before the xenos could depart to his kitchen, Jak took him by the elbow. For any other person to do this would probably earn them a dislocated shoulder, but Jestross simply looked at his captain curiously.

"Jestross, tell me. This HateFearLove. Do the crew still smell like that? Do they smell of it around me?"

The xenos didn't have it in him to lie or dissemble, but Jak could see him hesitate.

"Yes," he said, finally. "HateFearLove is there but not in everyone the same. Some smell of love for son of captain, friend of armsmen. Some smell of hate for murderer of Admiral. And some fear. Fear that thou will be death of all. Not easy smells, not together smells. Thy crew is not a pride.

 _Author's Note 19/2/17: My apologies for the appalling number of typos in the first upload of this chapter, and thanks to the person who pointed it out. Hopefully, the majority of them are taken care of now._


	12. Part 2- Chapter 10

**Chapter 6**

"I have named it the Cobweb."

Titanius L'Tarvius stood before a room sized holo-field, addressing the hundreds of gathered captains and officers arrayed in multi-tiered rings around him. Sharp-eyed cherubs looked down at them from the high eaves of the overhead deck, their faces cunning and narrow on top of their flabby gene-sculptured bodies. The _Unshakeable Will_ possessed ancient, imposing command and control tactical facilities, like nothing Jak had ever been privileged to see before. The holo-field alone was one of the finest he had ever set eyes on, able to display constantly updating images of celestial phenomena many void units away in crystal clear clarity, and of such size that a person could walk through it and be subsumed in the viridian glow.

Currently it was displaying 'the Cobweb', an immense, labyrinthine celestial structure, again unlike anything Jak had seen before. A carefully constructed system of channels, narrow by the standards of the void, lined by asteroids whose orbits had been carefully cultivated, presumably over decades, via technology far beyond anything the Imperium possessed. This masterwork of orbital manipulation had created a series of long tributaries all stretching off a central canal, its bank circumscribed by great moving walls formed by the precisely positioned asteroids.

It was within this celestial river system, the Cobweb, that the Dark Kin kept their Warp Gate, and the fortresses which protected it. To conduct their raids, the Eldar ships ran the gauntlet through the central canal, timing their runs for periods when the eccentric orbits of the component pieces formed a stable alignment through which a vessel could pass.

"We will enter here," L'Tarvius said, gesturing with his long staff at the point where the central canal spilled out from the greater asteroid field into the void beyond. As he spoke, the hololith began to move, showing the asteroid field in orbit, and the precisely curving trajectories that the armada would need to follow in order to pass through the canal. "We will fly as one fleet, splitting off at this point here, where the Thunder Group, lead by the _Siren's Wail_ will proceed down this secondary tributary to assault the fortress located here. As they attack, the larger group will proceed upriver, eliminating any mobile resistance that we encounter, until this point where the Lightning Group, led by the _Portentia_ will take this tributary to assault the second fortress, here." He pointed out the landmarks with sharp, swishing movements of his staff.

Jak stood just offside L'Tarvius, bathed in the viridescent light of the hololith and barely paying attention. He knew the plan off by heart and could recite the approach vectors in his sleep, having spent hours with L'Tarvius going through each and every detail of the assault. Instead, Jak's eyes were on his officers, placed at the first tier of seating and watching with professional impassivity. All except for his second officer and Master of Ordnance, Pak Stieg, that was.

"Your plan splits up our forces as soon as we make contact with the enemy," the ex-pirate called out. The Lysandrians, who went about in awe of L'Tarvius and had been listening in rapturous silence, murmured angrily at the interruption, but the Rogue Trader seemed to take no umbrage.

"A strategic necessity," he said, in the same tone of mellifluous authority that he always held. "The _Unshakeable Will_ and _Yolenna Symphony_ are too large to get a clear shot at the two fortresses through the tightly positioned asteroid banks, but the fortresses themselves are perfectly positioned to fire into the central canal. Unless dealt with, they will cut us to ribbons as we pass. However, as with most Eldar designs, their firepower is disproportionate to their armament. The Thunder and Lightning strike groups will be able to slip in close and destroy the fortresses, giving the larger ships the freedom to engage the Eldar capital ships and destroy the Warp Gate itself. Your own Lord-Captain helped to devise this plan."

Stieg scowled and fell silent, but Jak's eyes did not leave his for the rest of the briefing. After its conclusion, he accosted his second officer.

"You have concerns, Stieg?" He growled. Stieg snapped to attention and ripped off a perfect salute, his hands slapping the Aquila against his chest.

"No, Sir!" He called out, his eyes forward and looking just past Jak's ear. The old pirate could make even complete deference seem insubordinate. It was certainly a talent.

"I'm giving you permission to speak freely, Stieg. No one on my ship thinks more like a raider than you do. I mean that as a complement," he added hastily, as Stieg looked ready to protest. "What do you think of the plan?"

Stieg relaxed a little.

"Not much, Sir," he admitted. Jak raised an eyebrow.

"And why is that?"

"Well Sir, it's just that it's one thing to beat the freaks out in the open void, with surprise on your side, fellow sailors that you know the measure of and a clear prize on the line. But this trip through the daisies isn't that. It's signing us up to join a bunch of jumped-up shuttle jockeys who've never seen a real fight and who worship a lunatic Rogue Trader with gloriously stupid martyrdom on his mind, leading us into a death trap where our sensors will be scrambled to the outer rim and back and we'll be outnumbered by the most vicious bastards in the known galaxy who, incidentally, will have their backs to the wall and everything to fight for. All for the chance that a bunch of moth-riddled old Admirals will pat us on the back and you might get to see a Queen's knickers. Sir."

Jak blinked.

"Very good, Mr Stieg. Maybe not quite so freely next time."

"Yes, Sir."

"Dismissed."

"Yes, Sir."

L'Tarvius had seen the conversation and left from consulting with his own officers to clap his hand on Jak's shoulder as Stieg left.

"Any trouble with your men, my boy?"

"Nothing that shoving them out an airlock wouldn't solve."

"I'm sorry?" The Rogue Trader looked taken aback.

"Oh," Jak waved a hand. "Just something my father always used to threaten to do to me." L'Tarvius laughed.

"I see. Well I'm glad he never followed through on the threat!"

"Oh he did, but he always let me back before my blood froze." Jak didn't wait for a response to that, he shrugged the Rogue Trader's hand off his shoulder and followed his officers out of the briefing room. Stieg hadn't been wrong about the nature of the challenge that they faced, and there was a lot of work left to do to prepare his ships for it.

* * *

To Maternin, the bridge of the _Yolenna Symphony_ glowed golden. Ribbons of glistening data, sharp in the noosphere, flowed up from every cogitator bank, forming thick steams of constantly updating information, perfectly aligned to be visible to the tech priests at their stations. Maternin felt sorry for those who were not able to see the ship like this, bathed in the warm glow of its awe-inspiringly complex systems at work. The great bridge must look so cold and empty to those with un-augmented eyes, she thought.

The armada was entering the Cobweb cautiously, the ships flying close together with the _Yolenna Symphony_ and her squadrons at the fore. Interceptors flew scout runs from the Light-Cruiser's flight decks, scouting far ahead down the central canal scouting and circling asteroids like buzzing flies before returning to refuel with the Yolenna. Each ship in the armada had timed their entry perfectly, and followed the _Yolenna Symphony_ in neat formation.

Maternin stood at a ring of cogitator banks, some distance away from the Captain's cupola, amongst the tiers of sensor officers and servitors. The ship's intricate array of auspex and auger systems provided a steady stream of data to the ship -from relative velocities to background radiation levels- which the dedicated sensor officers were tasked with managing. Dozens of petty officers were stationed along the sensor bays, each responsible for monitoring a specific data stream. Across from them, the vox officers received and relayed even more information, keeping in constant contact with the dozens of other vessels in the armada to produce a vast net of tactical data dredged from the darkness of the void. This was then double-checked by the lexmechanics, tech priests like Maternin, who compiled the staggering amounts of information produced to track friend and foe.

Maternin's current charge was the _Siren's Wail_. Two cogitating servitors stood either side of her, slaved to her display console as it captured and tracked the frigate's progress. Maternin monitored the input and output algorithmic products dutifully, as she compiled a probabilistic trajectory of Captain Yurghan's vessel that was confirmed by the vox officers aboard the Siren's own bridge.

There had been no contact with the Eldar so far, but focused auguries had clearly identified the energy signals of their Warp Gate, as well as the two asteroid-based fortresses guarding its approach. It was only the Dark Kin's ships that remained to reveal themselves.

The view through great vista ports of the bridge, wide lancets surmounted by ornate spandrels, was awash with activity; fellow ships and ponderous asteroids were so close that they became visible to the naked eye, a rare experience in Maternin's brief experience of void combat. But the visual field was not where the battle would be won or lost; in the heat of combat it would become nothing but distracting noise, a chaotic blur of colour and fury that could easily overwhelm the observer. The captain and his senior officers would instead be focused on the Battlesphere, the tactical hololith at the centre of the bridge, which displayed the carefully curated information provided by the sensor crews.

Maternin studiously ignored the vista ports as well, keeping her focus on the reams of sensory data running through her skull via her connected to her station. Real-time detection of position and vector in a specific volume of space was a far greater comfort to the tech adept in her than any visual confirmation of the Siren's current heading. Already, even before the battle had commenced, the task of the sensor crews was immense. They carefully tracked every relevant contact, from the many ships of the armada to the hundreds of asteroids that made up the Cobweb's threads.

"Monitor all those orbits, gentleman." The captain called out from his throne. "Anything that wobbles just a little out of time I want to know about. The Dark Kin can camouflage their ships as asteroids, I've seen them do it."

Aboard an Adeptus Mechanicus vessel, or even one of the older vessels of the Imperial Navy, the vast majority of this kind of work would be automated; the ship's combat integration systems would provide their real-time data directly to the Captain. But aboard a vessel such as _the Yolenna Symphony_ , human and servitor power combined to do the best they could at keeping the Battlesphere accurate and up to date.

As she was designated to monitor it, Maternin had patched in to receive all vox-contact to and from the _Siren's Wail_. She heard the relaxed drawl of Yurghan's Master of the Vox in her ear as if the speaker were standing next to her.

"Yolenna this is Siren. We've had a request from the Unshakeable to join the _Lux Veritas_ and the _Traverser_ on the run to the Alpha Fort."

At his throne, the captain gave a nod to his own Vox Master, signalling for a channel to be opened between himself and the _Siren's Wail_.

"Confirm that order, Ms Jate." He called out, and then in a quieter voice, one that only a few people aboard the bridge could hear, "Mr Yurghan, this is Velasquez. Happy hunting."

Maternin couldn't help but glimpse out to the vista pane to where she knew the _Siren's Wail_ could be seen. She watched it peel off, trailed by two other far smaller ships, separating from the rest of the armada on their own path to glory or destruction.

Although the enemy remained invisible to them, the battle had commenced. They were committed now.

* * *

Jak sprawled, trying to get comfortable in his throne as he let the Yolenna's eager machine spirits wash over him. He always felt himself become a tightly coiled spring of anticipation before battle and the ship's desire for combat was not helping; with the great spirit clamouring within his mind it was all he could do not to leap out of his seat.

The bridge was noisy, but it was the noise of expectancy, not combat. Cogitator banks hummed and sparked, bridge officers spoke to each other in tones of quiet professionalism and priests droned out their blessings as they walked from station to station, swinging heavy censers to consecrate the bridge prior to battle.

Jak forced himself to be still, to take on the appearance of calm. At this, he was certainly more successful than Seeros, who sat to his left. The wan young navigator was shifting constantly in his seat, as if it were covered in burs.

"I don't see why you need me here for this," he whined. "I would be better placed in my sanctum, in meditation."

Jak grinned blithely, ignoring the irritating tone of the man's voice. "My answer to that one hasn't changed, Navigator. Your eye is needed to see the things that our sensors can't. I don't expect the Dark Kin to attack from the Immaterium, but if they do have sorcerers that can use those unholy energies I want to be able to respond."

"I have no talent for such things," Seeros complained, twisting in his chair. "I can sense the tides but I have no skill at manipulating them to do your bidding."

"Still, I will use every weapon I have against the enemy, even an imperfect one. So it is stated in your contract, Navigator Primaris." Jak turned to his right, to his Enginseer Primaris. "Such useful things, contracts, don't you think Dhukov?"

Archmagos Dhukov did not respond to the jibe, nor his Captain's deliberate omission of his rank or title. Instead the Enginseer Primaris pointed to a figure amongst the multitude of cogitator banks.

"Query: That is the Genitari amongst the sensor crew."

"It is indeed." Jak looked to where Maternin stood, working intently at her display station.

"It is unusual, in my experience, for the captain to promote from within the Enginarium. It has traditionally been left to the Enginseer Primaris aboard both Imperial Navy ships and Privateers aboard which I have operated."

"Well, you know me, Dhukov. I just can't resist a pretty face." Jak replied, deadpan.

"I see. Libido." Speaking in gothic, in the deep-voiced artificial rasp that came through his rebreather mask, Dhukov sounded withering.

"Look at that," Jak grinned. "You're learning tone."

Dhukov did not deign to reply and, this brief distraction done with, Jak went back to monitoring the Battlesphere. It was crowded with moving rune sigils, indicating the ships of the armada and the ponderous obstacles of the asteroid field, but without a single hostile contact in sight.

"Where are you?" He murmured to the empty void.

"Perhaps they have abandoned the Warp Gate in the face of our opposition," Seeros said, sounding more hopeful than confident.

"No, they're here." Jak said. "They're watching us." No other species could hide in the void like the Eldar, sinking their energy signals into dark fields and mimicking the shape and orbits of nearby celestial bodies. They would wait for the perfect moment to draw the armada into their web, then attack with full force.

A chirp in Jak's ear signalled a direct vox-contact to the captain of the _Yolenna Symphony_ from the captain of the _Unshakeable Will_. Jak accepted the call.

"How are you my boy?" L'Tarvius, his voice rich and good-humoured in his ear, but Jak could sense the same anticipation in the Rogue Trader's tone as he himself felt.

"Lonely," Jak said. "I was hoping for some company by now."

"You'll have more dance partners than you know what to do with soon. Just wait until the Thunder strike group makes contact with the first fortress." L'Tarvius chuckled. "Then we'll be busy."

"I can't wait." Jak said, through gritted teeth as he experienced a sudden surge in the activity of the machine spirits. The _Yolenna Symphony_ responded to his own eagerness for battle with a bluster of sensory data demanding that targets be designated and weapons primed. Jak forced himself to surf above the awesome power of the ship's spirit, to remain focused on the task at hand.

"Just remember, my boy, they will get in the first good hits, but then the battle is on our terms. We'll outwear and outlast them once the battle is joined, we merely need to survive that first exchange of blows."

"I'll be here." Jak found himself irritated by the conversation. He wanted the Rogue Trader to stop talking; he wanted the battle to begin. L'Tarvius seemed to sense that and finished off quickly.

"Good hunting my boy. I have faith in you."

 _I have faith in you_. What an odd thing to say. Jak wondered for a brief moment if he'd ever heard those words from his father. But this wasn't the time for such thoughts and with a quick shake of his head Jak ended the vox call and returned to scanning the stars.

* * *

Maternin was beginning to get frustrated with the Yolenna's unimpressive auger arrays as she lost and re-captured the signal of the _Siren's Wail_ for the third time since it had departed 'downriver'.

"Keep her in our bloody sights, adept," growled Miras Trigal, the Master of Etherics. Maternin had found the young woman energetic and friendly when she had first come to the bridge. Trigal's promotion had apparently been a recent one, following the 'mutinous behaviour' that had led to the execution of the former sensor Master shortly before Maternin's arrival. Now, however, a ferocious change had come over the sensor master and she paced the deck anxiously, delivering a vicious tongue-lashing to anyone whose performance she disapproved of.

"It's river fighting, Minas," the Master of Ordnance said, "it'll get worse before it gets better."

"Mind your own sailors, Stieg." Trigal shot back.

Maternin shot a confused burst of binary to the tech priest nearest to her.

"River fighting?" She asked.

"Clarification: Also known as green sky battle conditions," he explained. "Multiple celestial obstacles within one void unit of the vessel, significant impediments to both tactical and evasive manoeuvres present, reduced sensor range due to celestial interference. They prefer to rely on metaphor to overcome the inefficiencies inherent in their language."

"No binary on the bridge!" Trigal snapped, but mercifully her attention was quickly taken away from Maternin by the action at another sensor station.

"Ma'am, we've got something that keeps almost capturing between Object A-2-20 and A-2-30. Just a ghost of a signal but it's repeating."

"Show me that," called the captain from his throne. He was leaning forward, eagerly watching the Battlesphere. "Good eyes, that man. Oh yes." He straightened up. "Ordnance, firing solutions on that target if you'll be so good."

"Aye, Sir," called Stieg. Maternin couldn't understand what the captain saw in that whisper of a signal that he was so confident required targeting, but there wasn't time for her to speculate. Vox traffic was coming through from the _Siren's Wail_ thick and fast, updating the ship's position. Static clouded the vox, interference from the asteroid field perhaps, or something of the Eldar's own making.

"Visual confirma ….. Manoeuvring thru …. activated and we are ….. to prepare for an att …. contacts … sky so far."

"Siren this is Yolenna. We're getting interference. Can you repeat that last hail?"

"Hang on. We're tracking something approaching on the warpward side of the asteroid field, moving off our bow," called out a sensor officer.

"More contacts on the starboard bow, Ma'am," cried another sensor officer. Voices joined that chorus. Trigal was quick in relaying the information to her captain.

"Thirty new contacts, all on approach vectors. Attempting to identify them."

"Thank you Ms Trigal," called back the captain, sitting up straight in his throne. "Mr Sokil, prepare the interceptor wings for attack runs, we will have targets for them very soon. Scramble all bomber wings as well. Mr Stieg I want to be able to shoot something in the next five minutes. Have your people ready."

Suddenly the calm bustle of the bridge had exploded into the controlled chaos of battle. The noosphere was alive with activity, golden threads of information running from station to station faster than any individual tech priest could keep track of. The _Siren's Wail_ was becoming harder to track. Maternin frantically opened herself to the extra processing power provided by the servitors on either side, feeling her cheeks flush from the heat of her augmented brain struggling to keep up.

"We … fired on. Repeat … being fired … multiple hits, we … firing solution. _The Traverser_ … damage to her guns … sive action."

"Thunder Group has made contact with the enemy, trading fire." Bawled a vox officer.

The Battlesphere glowed bright with the red of enemy vessels, scores of them now. They appeared from everywhere, as if some signal had been given and the Eldar had thrown off their cloaks of darkness in perfect synchronicity. It shouldn't have been possible, Maternin knew. They should never have been able to hide so well, so close to the ships of the Lysandrian armada. But they had.

And now they were closing in.

* * *

Jak stood up from his throne looking out the vista ports as the void began to fill with the dark blurs of enemy ship movements. The sensor crews worked frantically to identify them, but even before the battle formations of the Dark Kin had fully emerged, Jak took a deep breath and began bellowing orders.

"Power to the bow shield and brace! Get your wings in the sky at the double Mr Sokil, I don't want them caught in the flashover. Guns, do not lose that capture, I want to shoot something soon, by the Throne I do."

His bridge crew worked like the seasoned professionals so many of them were, responding to panicked hails from the Lysandrian armada and the shifting tides of the Eldar swarm with equanimity and resolve.

It was already apparent that three of the Eldar vessels were capital ships, two potential torture-class cruisers, which were make their play for the _Unshakeable Will_. The 'ghost' that his sensor crew had spotted was probably smaller, as it seemed confident to navigate the dangerously crowded territory outside the central canal, but it was at least the size of the Yolenna and far more agile.

It darted clear of the bank, and Jak did not need to hear the word from his Master of Etherics to know that it was firing upon them. The shot cut across the starboard side of their armoured bow. The vista ports darkened automatically before the dazzling light of their energy weapons could blind anyone on the bridge. Then a second shot, quickly following the third, the same booming, rattling sound as the ship was shaken to her core.

Jak braced his hands against the throne as the whole ship shuddered, not only from the impact of the weapon, but from the sudden distortion of mass dispersal and inertial dampening taking place in response to the almost instantaneous vaporisation of thousands of tons of metal. The shot had passed through her shields, but Jak felt, with a confidence honed through dozens of such battles, that it had not cut through any integral parts of his ship. The angle had been wrong, she'd skimmed the prow.

"Shields?" He called out, standing up from his throne. Attendants raced to pick up and help spool the fine neural cabling that kept him connected to the ship, preventing it from being yanked out by his sudden movements.

"Three points and rising, Sir!" Called his Master of Aegistics.

"I want than number up tenfold the next time I ask, and I don't care how you make that happen." Jak was walking as he talked, as if he could follow the movements of a ship that he could barely see as it cut across their bow.

The Eldar vessel had completed its pass and was diving back into the asteroid field as the Yolenna Symphony's lance turned ponderously to follow it. The Imperial light-cruiser couldn't dare move into the dense packs of asteroids forming the 'banks' of the central corridor, but the Eldar vessel could dart in and out like fish in the coral. She wasn't the only threat, either. A dozen or so escort ships were making up an assault wave on the Lysandrian armada, flanked by scores of the Eldar's own fighter/bomber squadrons, needle-nosed interceptors and scythe-shaped bombers.

"Mr Sokil keep those bastard swarms off us while we're vulnerable. Tell your bomber wings to target the first wave of escort ships. Mr Stieg I want that light-cruiser on the end of my lance."

"Designating the target, Sir, but tracking her is a nightmare," Stieg groused. "She's swung around past that asteroid, and we'll have to recapture her on the other side."

"Object A-3-30, Sir" Ravenna clarified Stieg's comment, but Jak could already see what was happening. The ship's arc could be tracked probabilistically but she'd be hard to hit that way. He might try to catch her between his lance and the _Portentia_ 's torpedo, but the _Portentia_ was on the wrong side of the _Unshakeable Will_ and engaging her own targets. The _Unshakeable Will_ had two cruisers to contend with, both of which were moving in for their own exchanges of fire.

Jak stood at the edge of the cupola, his hands gripping the balustrade as he looked intently at the Battlesphere. Choices, so many choices, and decisions needed to be made quickly. More information about the threats that they faced were coming to him rapidly.

"Sir, we have a dozen assault boats in the sky, converging on us."

"Mr Sokil, two wings to it if you'd be so good."

"Aye, Sir, Raptor and Corvid wings moving to intercept."

"Very good. Ms Jate, request fire support from the armada to keep those boats off us. "

Jak looked at the Battlesphere, willing himself above the pandemonium, an island of calm in an ocean of seething chaos. The bulk of the armada was engaged now, individual battles playing themselves out across the narrow width of the central canal. They needed to resist the initial salvos from the Eldar vessels, maintain their trajectories and inflict maximum damage in the return fire. If they could take one or two of the cruisers out of the battle early then they stood a fighting chance of making it to the Warp Gate. But the Eldar needed to be slowed down and hit hard.

"Mr Stieg," he could hear his own voice ring out clear and firm, as if echoing back from the balustrades of the cupola. "For'awrd lance to target Object A-3-30."

"Confirm, A-3-30, Sir!" Stieg bawled out.

"Aye. Blow that bloody rock out of the sky."

"That debris will cross our heading, Sir." Al Dessi said, no hint of rebuke in her voice, just the facts. The warning was clear though; destroying the asteroid would send countless new missiles shooting into the sphere of battle with no way to track or evade them. Moreover it risked starting a cascade, with chunks of asteroids colliding and breaking into smaller pieces, multiplying into a cloud of debris that would sweep across the ships, friend and foe alike.

"There's too much firepower going around to expect that we'll escape without a little shrapnel. I want to strike the first blow." Jak said, firmly.

"Prow fire control reports primed and ready at your order Sir." Called Stieg.

"Fire."

It was a simple word, but with it a captain could unleash power and fury unlike anything else in the Imperium. No Battle Titan or Imperial Artillery squad commanded the kind of weaponry that every naval captain could bring to bear with a word. No terrestrial battlefield would see the same level of destructive firepower that naval captains took for granted, except for those worlds marked with the death sentence of _Exterminatus_.

The great beam of las-fire lanced forth from Yolenna's underslung lance. Whatever essential tasks they had, few could resist stealing a glance at it as it scythed through the stars, spearing deep into the heart of the craggy, unassuming lump of rock that had been designated Object A-3-30.

No one was close enough to see the hole that was punched through the asteroid, nor the tectonic disintegration that occurred as it was blasted apart, fractured into countless pieces flung in every direction. But every ship, Eldar and Imperial, lit up with warning signals as the storm of debris flew towards them.

* * *

Maternin's fingers stabbed at the rune keys on the surface of her station, trying to keep track of the _Siren's Wail_ as it ghosted in and out of their tracking systems. Interference from the Eldar ships was playing havoc with the augers now, and the Thunder Group was becoming next to impossible to track consistently.

Then the asteroid exploded.

The debris could not be tracked by the ships sensors, but its effects could be. A cloud of rock travelling at tens of thousands of metres per second washed across the void, buffeting the two warring sides like a wave. The Eldar light cruiser, closest to the asteroid when it exploded took the brunt of the damage, as Captain Velasquez had intended, but on the spinward side the smaller ships were left vulnerable to flying debris.

The Lysandrian ships broke off their attack runs, frantically trying to evade larger fragments of rock, but this manoeuvring only caused more chaos. The armada's trajectory had been carefully calculated to keep in line with the natural orbit of the asteroids that made up the Cobweb. Now captains were attempting to calculate new trajectories as well as evade the smaller Eldar ships that were tearing through them like a storm of knives.

" _Unshakeable Will_ is changing heading," someone called out.

"She's leaving the battle?" The first officer demanded, but Trigal saw the truth of it.

"No, she's moving to get between the debris cloud and the smaller ships."

"Good," Jak said from the throne. "That shot did the trick. She's flying wounded and she won't try to hide in the weeds again. L'Tarvius can keep the bigger rocks from causing too much damage."

It wouldn't matter, Maternin knew. Fragments of the broken asteroid would inevitably hit other asteroids, at such speed that they would cause more fragmentation. Soon the void would be choked with debris and it would be up to the void shields on every ship to ensure they survived the cascade.

That was if they survived their first clash with the Dark Kin, of course.

The part of Maternin's brain that was pure Mechanicus could only watch the Eldar vessels with curiosity, holding at bay the appalled horror of her organic mind. Whatever blasphemous technology controlled their flight was staggering in its efficiency and agility. The smaller vessels of their attack squadrons entirely defied physics. They darted, hovered and surged into battle with almost animalistic movements, flocking their prey like birds before striking like venomous snakes. The ageing attack squadrons of the Yolenna Symphony were outnumbered, outgunned and outflown. Maternin could see the tightening of the Air Group Commander's face as he called out updates on their dwindling numbers.

"Raptors three, six and nine down. Raptor four heading back to the cradle. Belay that, Raptor four is down."

"Keep hard at it, Mr Sokil, I want those assault boats down." The captain was bellowing, gripping the balustrades of the captain's cupola. "Mr Stieg, why don't I have a new firing solution for that that light cruiser yet? What's slowing your people down?"

Explosions were filling the battle sphere now, the titanic clashes between munitions and ships resulting in brief, flickering fireballs and debris sprays that appeared on the sphere as flickering indicators, and through the vista ports as pinpricks of flashing light.

"Yolen … ren's Wail. We are break … tack run. I repe … breaking off … We've destroyed the … moving to re … fleet."

"Did they say they've destroyed the fort?" Called one sensor officer. "We're still picking up its signal."

"Sensors ghosts," another replied. "The xenos want us starting at ghosts."

The Eldar's sensor interference technology was causing chaos. They weren't flying blind, they were flying under the influence, unable to tell what was a real threat and what wasn't. The closer vessels were easier to pick out, but the further out into the battlesphere their augers reached the more confusing the returns became. She tried to focus on the vox traffic from the Siren's Wail, hoping for updates that would confirm her tracking.

"… _experiencing heavy …ields are down … taking… vasive action."_

That was the last hail that they heard from the _Siren's Wail_. At Maternin's station the single green light that had indicated the presence of the vessel went dark. Data was flying through her skull so quickly she could feel her face going red. She whispered prayers, working through desperate rituals of retrieval but without success. The auger machine spirit had abandoned her. Across from her vox officers tried to make contact with the _Siren's Wail_ , but heard nothing but static. Maternin performed her last rite, and looked down at the result as it blinked balefully on the display screen.

"Confirmation," she called out softly, her voice catching. She tried again. "Confirmation: we've lost the _Siren's Wail_."

* * *

Jak didn't have time to react to the grave news about the _Siren's Wail,_ there were a dozen other unfolding calamities for the Captain to deal with. A savage grin twisted his face, his whole body felt alive with the heat and chaos of battle. But it would do no good to let those emotions rule, as much as he wanted to. He needed to lead, and leadership required cool-headed, sober decision making.

Everyone dealt with this feeling in a different way. The Wing Commander became more and more withdrawn, face tightening and voice growing more dispassionate as he reported on the status of the Yolenna's interceptors. At the other end of the spectrum, the Master of the Presido was screaming abuse at his charges manning the ship's arsenal of weapons batteries.

"Flog 'em to death if you have to you maggots! I want those guns loaded double time and or we're all going to be dancing the grim fandango!"

Between the fury squadrons and the rapid firing weapons batteries they were holding off the assault wave, but Jak could see that it was a close run thing, the void shields falling twice and the ship shaking ominously as deadly dark matter bombs struck her hull.

"Raptor Wing is down to three birds, Sir" called Mr Sokil. "All wings are taking heavy losses. We can't compete in the sky against these bastards."

"How many assault boats are still on an intercept trajectory?" Jak called out.

"Seven, Sir."

"Mr Gunnerin, can we knock them down?"

The Master of the Presido looked up from his battle station with a grim smile. "We'll make 'em pay for the privilege Sir, but we can't hold off that many."

"Very well. Mr Gunnerin, concentrate your fire on the bombers. Shields, draw on whatever reserves you require from engines and ordnance, I don't want to be caught naked in all this."

"Yes Sir!" The masters of the weapons batteries and shields called out in unison.

The captain turned away and walked back to his throne. As he sat down, he grasped a hanging vox-caster from above him and drew it down to his mouth. His words, transmitted across the ship, were measured and calm compared to the roar that he had been using to communicate with his senior officers.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Velasquez to all decks. We have enemy assault boats making their final approach. Arms are to be dispersed amongst all hands. I trust you will all do your duty, to your Emperor, to your ship and to each other. Prepare to be boarded."


	13. Part 2- Chapter 11

**Chapter 7**

With the same swiftness that it had begun the shuddering rattle of the ship under fire ceased. The first wave of the Dark Kin assault had passed. Jak listened to the silence for a moment with a small smile on his face. Then he went back to work.

Signals were flowing thick and fast between the ships of the Lysandrian crusader armada now, and a better picture of the enemy was developing. The Eldar were devilishly good at camouflage; they could disguise the energy signatures of their engines and cloud their silhouettes with ease in the dark haze of their voids shields. But they could not hide the energy signatures of their guns, and from that scant information and the records of the Yolenna's Librarium, Jak's bridge crew could develop a profile of their foes.

"Two torture class on the _Unshakeable Will_ , Sir, but the ship that attacked us is an Umbra-class, a smaller, faster cruiser. Keeper Dekstiax says Lysandrian records have it as the _Agony Eternal,_ wielding dark lances and assault boats."

"Thank you, Ms Al Dessi," Jak said, examining the flashing runes that filled the Battlesphere. The rest of the Dark Kin force was a motley collection of Corsair escorts; they didn't look much compared to the capital ships but they had scythed effortlessly through the Lysandrians. With their ill-prepared crews and retro-fitted weapon systems, few of the Lysandrian ships had ever stood a chance and the sensor reports indicated that already a third of the armada lay destroyed or crippled. However, a handful of likely captains had combined with the Yolenna's marauder bomber squadrons to neutralise six of the corsairs.

They would do better on the next pass. The Eldar ships relied on jousting battles, quick passes where only one or two shots were exchanged, and the faster, better ranged ship often came off the victor. But the narrow, crowded conditions that had been created across the Cobweb gave the crusaders an advantage, taking away the Eldars' ability to manoeuvre freely. The Cobweb had allowed the Eldar to slip their snare around the crusaders' necks, but now Jak and L'Tarvius had turned it on them. To the fragile ships of the Eldar fleets, speed was survival, and the Cobweb was about to become a death trap for them.

Jak would make sure of that.

"Vox from the _Unshakeable Will_ , Sir. They're confident that they can take the two Torture cruisers if you can keep the Umbra class off them."

"Tell L'Tarvius he can proceed with our support," Jak nodded. "Mr Sokil, your Marauders amongst the Lysandrians if you'd be so good. Give them what aid you can to bring down any corsairs that try to wedge us on the second pass."

It would be a few minutes at least before the larger ships of the Dark Kin fleet came back around, but the smaller vessels, bombers, fighters and assault boats, still filled the Battlesphere. Jak gave the situation a momentary glance, but the outcome of the skirmishing seemed dishearteningly clear. His Furies had taken care of the majority of the Eldar bombers, and were still doggedly attempting to defend the _Yolenna Symphony_ from the incoming assault boats. But, the horrifically fast Razorwing fighters of the Eldar were providing an impenetrable escort, and it seemed inevitable that a number of the assault boats would still make it to the Yolenna.

Returning to his throne, Jak picked up the antique speaking tube that hung at one arm, his private line to the Yolenna's Master of Arms.

"Mr Sykarin, tell me what we can expect from a boarding action."

Garian's voice came through clear and calm at the other end. He was the only one of the Masters of the ship not expected to be present on the bridge during battle. His duty was to defend against boarders, and to rally the survivors if the bridge officers were killed. From a shielded bunker at the centre of the ship he coordinated the armsmen, as well as the thousands of crew who would be required to pick up weapons in the event that their deck was boarded.

"Sir, they can't attack in great numbers, so they won't try to hold territory or take control of the ship. Most like they'll want to drive through our defences like a hurricane and take out critical systems; the engine or the void shields at best guest, maybe the Gellar field too. Then they'll make their escape while their friends outside finish us off."

"We can track them through the ship?"

"Unlikely. They'll mess with our sensors, jamming and ghosting till the machine spirits in the auspex are chasing their own tails. We won't know where they'll be or in what numbers till we see them with our own eyes. Their tactics will make it seem like they're in a hundred places at once. That's how such a small group can create absolute havoc on a ship like ours."

"Very well. You have my authorisation to arm the crew and place them as you see fit. We can expect the assault boats to board us within the half hour."

"Thank you, Sir. I will lead the main force from the starboard flight deck, and try to hold them off as they land. I'll send the sergeants with teams of twenty to defend chokepoints leading to all the ship's critical systems."

"Very good. Happy hunting, Mr Sykarin." Jak turned to Borjean. His bodyguard and friend had been lounging behind the throne for the entire battle. "You want me to take a few likely lads and man a chokepoint to the bridge, Sir?" He asked now.

"Aye, take who you need from the bridge guard and head to the second chokepoint. And send someone to my great cabin. Have Jestross bring my strongbox, the wooden one that sits at the foot of my bed."

Borjean gave a nonchalant salute of the Aquila and departed to carry out his captain's orders. Jak turned back to the Battlesphere, gazing eagerly into the green glow as the Dark Kin capital ships returned for their renewed assault.

All of his energy was focused on victory now. He could feel his ship inside his mind, coursing with the joy of battle. He wanted to burst out laughing, echoing the Yolenna's spirits. This was what he was made for, not the dull work of ship stocking and purchase orders, not the complex politics and shifting loyalties of crew management. _This_. This was Jak Velasquez, at the heart of the storm.

* * *

To Maternin's untrained eyes the situation on the Battlesphere looked grim, although no one on the bridge seemed to be despairing. In fact, the Captain was looking positively exuberant, and was calling out to his Masters with eager commentary on the state of both the Eldar and their Lysandrian allies.

For her own part, Maternin felt a sick twisting in her stomach, an uncomfortable, anxious sensation. She did not enjoy battle, and this was only the second that she had ever participated in. She pushed the sensation away, shunting cognitive capacity to the augmented side of her brain, which had little truck with such basic chemical processes as anxiety or fear.

Feeling calmer, Maternin returned her attention to her display station. Working through rituals of electronic divination, she attempted to make contact with the _Siren's Wail_ through the storm of interference that the Eldar and the Cobweb had produced.

There was something there in the blizzard, she was sure of it. Some trace of the Siren's signal, if she could just distinguish it from the interference. As she strained to do so she felt her face flush and sweat drip down her brow, her skull heating up from the enormous processing power that was running through her brain. The servitor next to her gave an involuntary moan. But she was close. She knew it.

The station blew before Maternin even knew that she was in danger. A great galvanic crack surged and threw her across the deck. She crumpled it a heap from the force of the overload. Head reeling, she forced herself onto her elbows, slumped again, vomited heavily. Her mouth tasted like copper and acid. She felt a hand on her shoulder, a concerned face looking in hers. An armsman of the bridge guard was crouching over her, patting smouldering embers off her robe.

"Bloody hell!" The armsman breathed. "Lucky escape, priest."

Maternin looked over at the smoking ruin of her display station. The servitors who stood on either were smoking too, the augmentations of their faces turned to melted ruin by the electricity that had run through them, liquid metal dropping to the decking with soft clinking sounds. They had received the full force of the station's overload that Maternin had survived.

She stood, unsteady for a moment, patted herself down and looked about. "Station 88 down!" An officer called out but that was the only attention paid to her accident.

"Not lucky," she corrected the armsman, pointing at her boots. "Insulated soles." She grinned, suddenly feeling light-headed and exhilarated, almost manic. "Never experiment without them!" She wanted to laugh and throw up again at the same time.

The armsman still looked concerned but his attention was taken away by an order from the Cupola.

"Neevin! Get yourself up here! I want you on the chokepoint with us."

"Yessir!" He called out, shooting Maternin one last look of concern. "Are you sure you're alright?" He whispered. When she didn't reply he called back out to cupola "Coming Sir!" Neevin jogged away, joining the cluster of armsmen who'd been gathered up top.

She recognised the man giving the orders, the Head of the Captain's Guard who had escorted her to the strange meeting in which she had received her promotion. He had removed his grey duster and was wearing a shining silver cuirass, seemingly made for a much smaller man. His paunch spilled out, so that he seemed to ooze out of the armour. Seeing Maternin staring at it he laughed and rapped his knuckles against the gleaming metal.

"Praetorian 13th Light Dragoons!" He called out. " _Viret in aeternum!_ Emperor bless the old regiment! _"_

"Bloody heavy Dragoons more like," snicked the xenos, Jestross, at his side, the jest sounding strange in his accented gothic.

"Shut your face, you ambulatory throw rug," Borjean barked, waving one finger at the alien. "You didn't come up with that joke and you don't even understand it. Now get your cooking knives out, we're going a-hunting."

"I'm coming with you," Maternin called out. She found the odd, bickering couple oddly comforting and she had nothing left to contribute here with her battle station ruined. The ebb and flow of the bridge seemed to have continued without her, other officers taking up the slack and no attempts being made to repair her station. She could tell that any repairs would take hours and she had no intention of standing idly by whilst the battle was won or lost.

Borjean exchanged glances with Jestross, then gave an expansive shrug. "You know how to fire a shot cannon, little red robe?"

Maternin had never held one in her life. "At the enemy, Sir."

The old soldier laughed. "Sounds good to me. Right, let's at it then boys. We hold the choke point and no one gets on the bridge without our say so. _Potius Mortis Quam Capiar,_ hey? Very good!" Still chatting heartily he lead the armsmen out the Captain's exit. Maternin hurried after them. Behind her she could hear the calls on the bridge heating up once more as the Eldar returned for their second attack run.

She pushed her way through the tight packed throng of nervous ship's troops and came up alongside Borjean and Jestross. The former winked at her and handed over a large, wide muzzled autogun. She took it gratefully, recognising it as a typical Adeptus Mechanicus naval design, built to fire disassembling shells that were intended to shred and maim flesh without damaging the ship's essential internal systems.

"Sir," she said softly, still jogging to keep up with the fast moving group. "How is the battle going? Are we winning?" Borjean waved a hand.

"Oh Jak's got it well in hand," he said airily as the dull, shuddering thunder of impacts against the void shields started up again. "Don't you worry miss, the boy was born for this mess. We'll be done with the Dark Kin by teatime."

* * *

Gerdal Sinkmoss stood aboard the bridge of the _Portentia_ , face so drawn that his cheeks looked hollow. His ship still trembled with aftershocks from the last shots fired at her, but Captain Sinkmoss ignored them, keeping his feet slightly spread and rising lightly onto his toes in order to balance his weight as the deck shifted beneath him.

"Shields?" He asked, and when he received no answer he yelled out. "Shields!"

"Shields at 40 percent and rising, Sir," called a voice from below him. Gerdal did not look down to where it had come from. He was staring out through the vista ports at the emptiness of the void. "Good," was all he said.

He felt the cold creep of fear leaving him, his body unclenching ever so slightly. He still woke up each night in a cold sweat, remembering the moment when their shields had been leeched, his ship left lifeless in the void, blind, deaf and vulnerable. Thinking back on the helplessness of that moment made the gorge rise in his throat. But he would not show it. Gerdal Sinkmoss was old Calixis. He would stare down death itself.

And he would not let the _Portentia_ be shamed again.

"Helm, bring us around the _Unshakeable Will_. I want sights off her Starboard bow. Vox the Yolenna and offer our fire support on targets of their choice."

This had not been the plan. Gerdal's role was to ride in the _Unshakeable Will's_ wake through the first wave of battle and, at the appropriate time, assault the second standing Eldar fortress. But he could see that the plan needed changing. They would never make it to the second fortress at this rate, and his torpedoes would be required to help destroy one of the capital ships that had come alongside the _Unshakeable Will_ for a second attack run.

The _Unshakeable Will_ was shedding her armoured shell like great flakes of dead skin, the Eldar's weapons raking deep scars of plasma fire across her hull. The _Yolenna Symphony_ was venting from at least two major lance strikes and her superstructure was crawling with assault boats. Gerdal could see all of this unfolding and he was not a man to stand by and let it occur without offering fire support.

"Ready the torpedo tubes!" he called out. "How long, Ms Narqual?"

His Master of Ordnance shook her head. "Another ten minutes, Sir. There's been some resistance on the torpedo decks, but the lash will bring them into line."

Sinkmoss did not show any response to this, but inside he churned with rage. Always he was stymied by incompetents and malcontents. The _Portentia_ groaned with crew, thousands upon thousands of barely trained bondsmen needed to haul chains and jury-rig machinery that had long ago worn down its automation. Too many land lubbers, not enough true void sailors. He resented them immensely, although he was too professional to show it.

He was not a fool. He knew the limits of his ship. The _Portentia_ was nothing more than an escort vessel, a fragile torpedo boat far past her prime. That her crew ran over fifteen thousand strong was a sure sign of her faded potency. A newer ship, with systems still fresh from their Forge World, or even a far older ship from the vaunted technological age of the Great Crusade would not need such a large crew, nor require such tender ministration of her machine spirits to avoid calamity. The ancient _Siren's Wail_ , for example, despite being nearly twice the size of the _Portentia,_ had almost the same number of crew. That was, if the _Siren's Wail_ still survived.

Gerdal put such morbid thoughts out of his mind. His ship was almost in position. The Eldar had made their first mistake, the cruiser _Blind Lament_ drawing in too close to the _Unshakeable Will_ , with the _Portentia_ at her stern. Caught between a broadside and a torpedo salvo she had surely been brought to her inevitable ruin.

He drew his sword, taking a moment to look at it thoughtfully. It was no great weapon, a shock rapier from the arms room, serviceable and unassuming; Like the _Portentia_. But with it, he would do great things. He drew himself up to his full height and pointed the rapier out the window, preparing the words that would announce the doom of the _Blind Lament_.

"Hot tube!" Came a panicked cry from the battle stations, picked up by more voices. "Hot tube! All decks! Hot tube!"

"What is happening? Damn you all, fire those blasted-

The explosion took the _Portentia_ before he could finish his words; a violent heave, as if some great hand had taken the ship by the bow and shaken it. Gerdal Sinkmoss was thrown down, his head catching a crack on the edge of the balustrade, audible even about the thundering of his ship's internal distress. His rapier hit the decking of the cupola with a clatter.

Too stunned to stand, his vision blurring as pain filled his skull, Gerdal tried to reach out for his sword. He could hear voices raised all around him. _Fire_ he desperately tried to call out to one of his officers, but he was winded, his breath had left him. He forced himself to his knees, fighting for air, and with the first precious mouthful that he could draw in gasped out as loud as he could.

"Fire! Fire torpedo!"

* * *

A hololithic display to Jak's right flickered and brought and up the close range auspex vision of a grievously wounded _Portentia_. A full third of her hull had simply vanished in the explosion, destroyed instantly or transformed into the billowing cloud of debris that was now spreading out from her starboard bow.

"What happened?" Jak asked. Ravenna Al Dessi consulted with the vox crews for only a second before calling back up to him. "Torpedo malfunction, starboard tube, Sir."

"By the throne," Jak hissed. It was a risk that every torpedo boat ran of course, particularly one as decrepit at the _Portentia_ , but to see the destruction caused when a torpedo exploded inside the tube was something else. Thousands of crew would have died in an instant; worse still, thousands more would be dying by inches as the injured ship vented precious oxygen into the void.

There was little time for mourning though. Jak could see that the _Portentia's_ engines had been unharmed and that one tube still worked. She had brought her good side round to the enemy and even now the portside torpedo was streaking towards the Eldar Cruiser _Blind Lament_.

The Eldar vessel shuddered terribly as she took great macrocannon broadsides from the _Unshakeable Will_. With her shields down, her turrets ravaged and her engines unable to turn sharply enough to evade it, the _Portentia's_ torpedo drove deep into her guts before its warhead detonated.

"Good man, Sinkmoss!" Jak cried, thumping his fist against the arm of the throne. The captain of the _Portentia_ had responded to the potentially crippling devastation wreaked aboard his ship with commendable speed and his quick action had done for the Torture cruiser. The stricken vessel tried to limp away from the vice grip that she'd found herself in, but a second broadside from the _Unshakeable Will_ was more than she could withstand.

" _Blind Lament_ dead in the air, Sir" cried Al Dessi and she was right. Eldar salvation pods were streaking from the broken ship as the Dark Kin desperately abandoned her.

One cruiser down, but the second still lurked off the _Unshakeable Will_ 's stern, targeting her with the esoteric and deadly torpedos of the Eldar arsenal. By Jak's count, the _Portentia_ still had three torpedos left, and might still be able to make something of an assault, but she'd struggle to get a single torpedo salvo to land against any of the Eldar ships now they were wary of her.

The _Agony Eternal_ was leading Jak on his own merry dance, dragging his lances back and forth as she snaked in to launch her own salvos. Debris burned up against their shields from the carnage of the battle, constantly testing their strength and drawing power from the ship's other systems. Adding insult to injury his ship would by now be crawling with the boarding parties of the enemy. Jak grabbed at his personal vox line to the Master-at-arms.

"Sykarin, report." He ordered and was greeted by a snarl of static.

"All over us, Sir, but we're holding!" Garian's voice came back to him. "A half dozen assault boats have breached but we've got men at all but two. We'll hit 'em hard before they have a chance to set up beachheads, but we've teams at every chokepoint in case they get through."

"Very good. Have at them Mr Sykarin and keep me updated."

It was down to the Yolenna and the _Unshakeable Will_ now, Jak knew. The _Portentia_ was half a ship and the _Siren's Wail_ appeared lost. The other, smaller vessels of the Lysandrian Armada were being massacred, with the Yolenna's Marauders barely holding onto survival. But if Jak could win his duel with the _Agony Eternal_ and the bring his lances to bear on the last Eldar capital ship before the grand old _Unshakeable Will_ was brought low then the day would be theirs, he was sure.

"Mr Stieg," he bellowed. "All power to the fo'ard lances. Helm, two points to port. Let's drag her through the debris and see if that doesn't help us get a firing solution. I want to knock her lights out before she gets another clear pass at us."

* * *

The creature that launched itself at Armsman Neevin was a nightmare of bare, twisting muscle and barbed bone, its skull-white maw revealing the fangs that buried themselves in the Neevin's neck as its forepaws brought him to the ground. Jerking its head like a rabid dog, the creature tore the poor armsman's throat out with a savage growl. Five shot cannons firing at point blank range obliterated the creature but not quickly enough to save poor Neevin's life.

"Fall back," called Borjean, his gun still trained forward as he gave the order. The creatures, Kymerae Borjean had called them, were thralls of the Dark Kin, driven on by Eldar Beastmasters somewhere dowing the dark maze of ship's passageways. Half canine, half skinless nightmare, they had vaulted the barricades of the choke points and cut down defenders where they stood.

"Jestross!" Borjean yelled as his cannon barked again and he pumped another shell into the chamber. "There's a masked freak somewhere back there keeping these daemon pups in line. Take him down would you kindly?"

The xenos threw his head back in a guttural battle cry and launched himself down the passageway. As he ran, two arms spread to his sides, each holding a blade which sliced and carved through two baying Kymerae as he ran between them too fast for the beasts to respond. Hamstrung and wounded, the creatures stumbled. Shot cannons cut them down quickly. The corpses twitched and spasmed in their death throes.

A dozen armsmen still stood, holding the chokepoint but only barely. There were hundreds of chokepoints like it across the ship, narrowed passageways that protected her most valuable systems with reinforced bulkheads, adamantium barricades and raised platforms from which the ship's defenders could hold against boarders. This onslaught of Kymerae was wearing them down though. The beasts baying calls echoed from the darkness of the passageway ahead, and when they suddenly appeared around corners or sprang down overhead hatches, they struck with a ferocious speed and savagery that had the armsmen on the edge of panic.

The defenders gave ground slowly, weaving back through the barricades, pausing to pick off the Kymerae as they appeared, trying to shoot down the beasts before they could get close enough to attack with teeth and claws. The choke points had been designed to defend against armed intruders holding guns, not lightning fast xenos hybrids who seemed to feel no pain and could tear a man apart with a single swipe of their clawed feet.

Maternin moved in sync with Borjean, eyes forward, trying not to waste a single shot. Although she was a novice at combat she could keep up with any armsman at this simple task; augmented eyes kept her aim true and the cold calculus of combat wetware kept her focused, holding her terror at a distant remove.

There were six defenders still standing, including Borjean and Maternin, when the assault seemed to stop. They had been forced to retreat all the way into the tight snarl of shadowed passageways behind the choke point. The sound of howling monsters and thudding shot cannons ceased for a moment, and even the alarm klaxons that had been wailing since the battle began seemed to have quietened. The distant shudder of the ship's hull under immense stress, and the hissing of water escaping from damaged pipes were the only sounds remaining.

"Eyes up, lads," Borjean said quietly, at the sound of fleet footsteps against metal. The passageway lumens had been blown out and the middle-distance was shrouded in deep shadows. The survivors kept their guns trained ahead, waiting to see what emerged from the darkness.

They breathed a sigh of relief as the pad of feet on the decking turned out to be Jestross, his blades dripping with blood.

"Jestross!" Borjean called in relief. "Took care of the bloody freak, did you?"

Jestross raised his blades, lifted his head to the overhead deck and gave a guttural howl of triumph. But the noise turned to one of horror as he looked back down at them, his eye catching something behind the surviving armsmen. "Mandrake!" He cried out, the word becoming elongated and twisted in his accented gothic yowl. _Myaanndraaaayaaakkaaa._

To Maternin's left a shadow lengthened, seeming to bulge out from the bulkhead itself. It surged forward with impossible speed, forming the shape of a man, or something like a man.

Almost skeletally thin, with skin the colour of coal covered in twisting fluorescent tattoos that seemed to move as he did, twisting and twining around stringy biceps and a skeletal ribcage. His ash-grey hair hung lank and long, and he wore nothing but a ragged loincloth. But he moved faster than thought, bring a slender katana blade up to gently kiss the neck of the nearest armsman as he passed, before disappearing into the shadows on the other side of the passageway. He left no trace behind but the faint smell of sulphur, and an armsman who slid lifelessly to the deck, throat cut from ear to ear.

"What was that?" Maternin breathed in the silence that followed. She'd never seen anything like it in her life. Borjean's gave a great sigh that blew through his long moustaches.

"A Mandrake. Some fused nightmare of Immaterium and alien. Emperor on his throne, we're dead."


	14. Part 2- Chapter 12

**Chapter 8**

The ship-to-ship duel with the _Agony Eternal_ had persisted through another two passes, neither vessel scoring clean blows. Archmagos Dhukov was some time conferring with his attendants before he turned to Jak with his report.

"The last assault of the Eldar dark lances pierced the port topside combustion nave. Until the damage can be repaired we are down an engine."

"Thank you Dhukov," Jak said. "The old girl's always had a list to her, I trust the helmsman can accommodate." He was sanguine about the damage received; in return, the Yolenna had got her first solid fix on the _Agony Eternal_ and torn the Eldar vessel's shadow field to ribboned tendrils. He'd take the engine damage as a fair trade.

"Sir! The _Unshakeable Will_ requests immediate fire support. She is taking heavy fire from the torture cruiser _Tears of Isha_ ".

Fingers flicking across a throne mounted rune board, Jak brought up a hololith of the _Unshakeable Will_. The Great Cruiser had been horribly scarred by her battle with the two torture cruisers. Cathedral spires from her command deck had been sheared from the ship and were free-floating ponderously alongside. Broadside hatches were closed over where plasma shot had torn through the outer stirrups and great rents had been dragged across the flanks of her hull.

"Thank you Ms Jate," he called out. "Hold on your response".

The _Agony Eternal_ was out there in the asteroid field somewhere, hiding till her shadow field replenished no doubt, a welcome respite that would give Jak's people time to bring her void shields back to full power and deal with the boarding parties. But moving to support the _Unshakeable Will_ would leave the _Yolenna Symphony_ vulnerable again, positioned to be caught between the _Agony Eternal_ and _Tears of Isha_. A great risk, and one that required immense trust in L'Tarvius to prioritise both Imperial ships' survival against an Eldar foe that could turn the tables on them in an instant.

"Mr Sykarin," he voxed his Master-at-Arms, playing for time. "Report." There was nothing but static. "Report, Master-at-Arms!" When again he got no reply Jak turned to ship's Master of Etherics. She looked troubled.

"Sir, we're getting internal auspex interference across the ship. There seems to be battles in a hundred passageways but I can't confirm any of them. Sykarin reported in ten minutes ago that at least three groups had broken through and were running the passageways, but that was the last we've heard or seen from him." Jate appeared and Trigal's side to add, "Shield engine reported all clear a minute ago, Sir, but I couldn't raise Sergeant Teylor on the vox and the Chief's priests are reporting heavy fire from that part of the ship so I don't know which to believe. Mr Narn reported three minutes ago that they're facing heaving resistance on the portside top choke and I've lost all contact from the starboard choke, but I'd swear I hear screaming through the static."

This was what Garian had warned him of. Chaos in the passageways. The elite raiders of the Dark Kin carving their swift and bloody path through the Yolenna's innards, using their xenos technology to interfere with any attempt to coordinate a response. A dozen boarders could seem like a hundred and the thousands of Yolenna armsmen could be dragged all over the ship, forced to leave vital systems vulnerable while they responded to ghost signals.

"Sir, the _Unshakeable Will_ ," Al Dessi reminded him. Jak glanced at her, then at his Wing Commander.

"Mr Sokil, are any of your Marauders able to break off and support the _Unshakeable Will_?"

The Wing Commander turned slowly to look up at his captain, his voice seeming to come from some place distant. "Marauders?"

"Yes, man. Your bomber squadrons."

"Sir," Sokil said, with the blank, red-eyed stare of a broken man. "I have no bomber squadrons."

Jak gawped at him, then at the Battlesphere. He'd been so focused on his personal battle with the captain of the _Agony Eternal_ that he'd completely missed the destruction of the entirety of his bombing wings. It was a neophyte's mistake, the kind a spotty, stumbling midshipman would make, and be beaten severely for. It his father had lived to see it…

"Sir!" Jate called out, interrupting Jak's troubled reverie. "L'Tarvius himself is on the vox. He's demanding a response from you personally. Shall I patch him through?"

Jak ignored her. He was recalculating their position within the Battlesphere now. He was down his bomber wings and his Fury squadrons had been reduced to one fifth of their original strength. Whatever became of this battle, the _Yolenna Symphony_ would be returning home with empty hangar bays.

"We've lost contact with Guard Captain Narn at the tupport choke," called Jate. "And Sergeant Speartz at the starboard is babbling about witches and screaming for mercy on open vox."

Jak stood up suddenly. The throne attendants started and ran to him as he uncoupled himself from the _Yolenna Symphony_ , letting the neuro-connectors drop. They were snatched up by the attendants before they could hit the ground.

"Sir?" Al Dessi looked up at him from the deck below the cupola. "Captain L'Tarvius."

"Ms Jate, Give L'Tarvius my regrets, but we are unable to come to his aid at this time. Mr Sokil, bring your Furies back in. Tell them they've done their job. Tell them they have the Captain's thanks."

Jak walked, deliberately moderating his pace as he feel the urgency of the Yolenna leech out of his mind. Before departing with Borjean, Jestross had brought Jak his strongbox, a beautifully carved oak chest that had been a gift from his father upon becoming a midshipman. It had lived under whatever bunk Jak had called home for the past six years. He knelt before it and pressed his thumb to the print-coded lock. It sprang open. Inside lay an ebon black carapace vest, his las carbine and his personal collection of grenades.

Despite being a member of Scintillian nobility, Jak had never possessed a great deal of personal wealth, his father being notoriously frugal. His mother had always indulged Jak though, and her gifts of anti-personnel grenades had been a regular source of joy for him as a young firebrand. Some of them were simple frak grenades, cheap, plentiful and always useful, but others were truly rare. Works of art, products of war-artisans on far-flung Forge Worlds that had in some cases cost as much as one of the _Potential_ 's torpedos; plasma bombs, leaper mines, hallucinogen and tanglefoot grenades. With practiced care, Jak selected a half-dozen and slipped them into a bandolier.

Rising now, Jak unbuttoned his coat, shrugging it off his shoulders. Half the bridge were watching him now, some less surreptitious than others and staring at their bare chested captain atop his cupola. He put the carapace vest on, and cinched the armour tight across his chest, before slinging the badolier over his shoulder.

Borjean had left Jak with two guards. He turned to them now. "Helmsworn, Dunor. You're with me." To Ravenna, he called out. "Ms Al Dessi, I'm taking two men to secure the starboard chokepoint to the bridge. You have the cup and the throne until I return."

His first officer gaped at him, with good reason. A captain leaving the bridge to repel boarders was beyond all propriety in the Navy. But Jak was a privateer now, and he would go where his ship needed him most. There were three primary entrances to the bridge. If any one of them fell, the Dark Kin could cause carnage, right when the battle was balanced on a knife edge.

Jak and Ravenna held each other's gaze for a silent moment. He knew that if there was any resistance to this order he would have to kill her for mutiny. There could be no hint of disobedience during this critical point of battle. Ravenna knew that too, and still it clearly took every ounce of her military discipline to hold back from questioning him. Instead, she simply nodded.

"Aye-aye Sir. Happy hunting."

* * *

Borjean was scrambling like a man possessed, grabbing at one of the lumen rods that ran along the bulkheads, and tearing it free from the brackets. The fluorescent light threw up a startling relief of barely controlled fear on the man's face as he turned, holding the flickering lumen like a torch against the darkness. Torn wiring sparked behind him as he bellowed orders to the survivors.

"Wrench the bloody lights out, lads! Make a barrier! Sharply, before he's back!" He dropped the lumen on the floor, detached from the ship's electronics but still giving off light from the energy storing machine spirits within its batteries.

A low, bass chuckle echoed through the passageway. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, rumbling through the metal of the ship. A black shadow passed between the group once more, and an armsman gave a gurgling scream as he collapsed, his throat cut just like the first victim's had been.

"What are we doing?" Babbled the man next to Maternin, at the edge of panic. "What is that thing?"

"Mandrake," Jestross hissed. His head bobbed low and his arms, all four of them, spread wide, flexing in what Maternin took to be a hunting stance. He leapt at the bulkhead and tore two lumen rods free at once. Without questioning the order, Maternin joined in, whispering prayers of apology to the ship as she yanked a rod free. They soon had a half dozen lumens, set up as a rough perimeter around the five huddled survivors. A small circle of light surrounded them, throwing up strange shadows on the bulkheads.

"Mandrake," Borjean repeated. "One of the weirdest bloody monsters in a galaxy full of them." He was holding one lumen rod in his hand and using it like a torch, swinging it back and forth to light the corners of the passageway. "They move through shadows and they don't like the light. Slows them down. You step out of the shadows and you're a dead man, my lads."

"So we're safe inside the circle?

"Not likely," Borjean grunted. "It just means we've got a chance to see the bastard before he guts us. Jestross, you think you can take him in a knife fight you old sack of bones?"

"Yesss," Jestross hissed, seemingly becoming more bestial with every moment of battle. "Oh yesss,"

"If he can move through shadow," Maternin asked, "won't he simply bypass us and go straight to the bridge?"

"Mayhap. But they're a perverse bunch, your Mandrakes. He's just as likely to forget that he's here to do a job and decide he wants to have the pleasure of finishing us one by one."

 _Indeed._

The voice sounded like something wet and slimy that slithered through dank swamps. It was a voice thick with contempt and amusement. The mandrake struck again with horrific speed, but this time at least it was forced to come at them, emerging from the shadows and running barefoot across the decking. It took a running leap at the group, katana thrust forward. Jestross moved up from his crouch, meeting the thrust with crossed blades.

What followed was perhaps only truly visible to Jestross, the mandrake and Maternin. Jestross with his xenos eyes and Maternin with her augmentations were able to resolve movement twice as effectively as a normal human could. The flurry of blows that the two aliens traded must have looked like a blur to the surviving armsmen, and after only 2.68 seconds Maternin watched the mandrake backflip away and disappear into the shadows again.

Borjean rushed forward to catch Jestross as his alien friend dropped to one knee gasping. The alien's blood dripped from a half dozen wounds, and one arm hung uselessly at his side, the knife slipping from his fingers to clank against the deck.

From the darkness they heard the laughter again, slow, sonorous and twisted.

 _Well fought. I believe I will save you for last._

He struck again, from the other end of the passageway. Again he had to come at them from a short distance, and Maternin blasted away with the surviving armsmen, trying to hit the creature with their shot canons. Again the result was the same. Another corpse, eyes staring sightlessly into the darkness, hands grasping uselessly at the gaping wound in his neck.

Now there were only four of them left.

At times like this, Maternin was acutely aware of her two minds. The first mind ran hot and fast and thick as blood, purely organic, her instincts screaming at her to run, howling in terror that she did not want to die today. Most adepts of the Omnissiah purged this part of their mind as soon as they were permitted to, relying instead on their second, cybernetic minds, brains augmented with the pure processing power of neural cogitators. The fast mind and the slow, instinct versus logic. Maternin could feel in her mind the sharp edges where the two met, where the pulsing human brain touched the cold mechanicality of her augments.

The Genitari believed, _she_ believed, that her Omnissiah-gifted human instincts were still valuable, still worth keeping, but at times like this she took solace in the retreat to her mechanical mind, and its reassuringly emotionless analysis. Processing power was directed towards a careful, systematic profiling of the threat; the way the creature had moved, its speed and grace, its interactions between the shadow world and the physical world. It was a beast surely worthy of further study, so quickly able to shift from corporeal to incorporeal form.

She was going to die here, but she could still use her last moments to learn.

A faint echo from her human mind wondered, did non-Mechanicus feel like this? Were they too ever in two minds, feeling the raging conflict between instinct and rationality in moments of mortal danger?

With her mind processing at a feverish rate, Maternin also found herself acutely aware of her environment. The smooth, reinforced bulkheads curving off into the darkness. The water pooling across the floor where a stray shot had damaged the piping. The dim light from the lumen rods that had been hastily dragged across the decking, and the flickering spray of sparks from exposed wiring, their light dancing with the groaning shudders of the ship.

The soft patter of the creature's feet against the decking. The look in its eye as it drew back its sword, exulting for a split second before delivering the death strike.

And then the answer came to her, floating out of the morass of raw data. A hope, only the slimmest of hopes, but she clung to it as the sailor clings to wreckage in a storm.

As the other survivors looked about them in fear and confusion, Maternin smiled and stepped back into the darkness.

* * *

The passageway was littered with corpses. The armsmen at the starboard chokepoint had been butchered almost to a man. Some of them were still clinging alive and their final moments of agony melded with the ship's shuddering groans, a nightmarish whorl of screams and pleading. Two figures stood in the passageway, drinking in the suffering, seemingly unsurprised at being accosted by Jak and his two bodyguards.

The male was a warrior of one of the roaming Eldar Kabals, the reavers and slave-takers whose darkly armoured carapaces gave the impression of deadly beetles, graceful and hideous in equal measure. Head to toe in black, violet and red armour, his faceless visage swung towards Jak, the two crimson jewels of the eye sockets monitoring the new foes with a slow head tilt of curiosity.

The female could not have been dressed more differently, and Jak recognised her too, from the stories of old sailors who swapped legends of the terrible gladiator pits of the Dark Kin. She was armoured only on one side of her body, plated greave and vambrance beneath a spiked pauldron covered her from shoulder to ankle but only on the left side. Her right side was not only unarmoured, it was barely dressed, clad in a figure hugging black body stocking with so many windows cut out that there was more pale flesh than material visible.

She was perfectly proportioned, perfectly toned, and she displayed her flesh with the reckless nonchalance of a woman who knew no man was fast enough to touch a blade to her. The sight was enough to make a man sink to his knees in strangled desire, until you saw the face; eyes slightly too wide, too narrow, the pointed chin drawing the little mouth down into a permanent sneer, a lifetime of cruelty and an utterly alien lust for pain etched into a face that otherwise could have belonged to a porcelain doll.

A gladiatrix of the Wytch Cults, perhaps one of the deadliest aliens in the galaxy.

She walked like a dancer, one leg swinging elegantly in front of the other, metal toed shoes clicking against the deck as she lightly stepped around a man crying out his last pleas to the Emperor. Neither Jak nor his guards moved, watching transfixed as one dainty alien foot pressed down against the throat of the dying man and _twisted_. The wytch gave a flirtatious moue of pleasure at the man's strangled last gasps.

Now level with her companion, she shared with him a short, wordless glance. Neither spoke. Jak raised his las carbine.

It wasn't that the aliens moved quickly, Jak would explain later to an eager audience, it was that they seemed to move as smoothly as water, simply flowing over or around any shots fired at them. In a moment the gun had been knocked out of his left hand, and Jak was swinging his cutlass desperately to defend himself. The Kabalite warrior held two, wickedly curved knives and crossed them to lazily fend off Jak's blow.

The Velasquez Sword that Jak had retrieved from his father's coffin was an ancient power cutlass, its blade glowing with an almost imperceptible corona of humming energy, emanating from the power source in the ornate shield guard. As it met the Kabalite warrior's crossed blades the alien weapons simply shattered. The expressionless mask of the Kabalite warrior had no chance to show any reflection of its owner's momentary surprise before Jak's blade cleaved through the helm, biting deep into the alien skull beneath.

Jak kept moving as the Eldar dropped bonelessly to the deck, yanking his sword free and spinning towards the other Eldar. The wytch was watching him with a faint, scornful curiosity. Helmsworn and Dunor, two of the best fighters on board the ship, were already prostrated at her feet, victims of the wytch's sword play. But they were alive, Jak didn't miss that detail. The wytch wanted them to see them experience slow death.

A good sign then. The both wanted the same thing. A few centuries from now would suit Jak just fine, preferably surrounded by women and liquor on a distant pleasure world.

She raised her sword in a salute. It was an impressive weapon, forged into the spiked style that the Dark Kin seemed to favour so much, with the blade being made of twenty interlocking smaller fragments, each one shaped like the head of a battle-axe, or perhaps like batwings.

"You are the captain of this vessel," she said. It didn't seemed to be a question.

"Captain Jakobian Velasquez, ma'am." He said. Politeness was always called for with a pretty woman, murderous alien bitch or no. "I take it you're here to surrender."

She laughed, high and pealing. "How droll! No, I am here to do you the greatest of honours. I am Vetrianas of the Cult of the Pale Blades, once and future champion of the Pit of Belshammaroth and mine shall be the last name you ever hear. Your death shall be one of a thousand cuts, each longer and deeper until you bleed to death on the deck of your own ship. Your death shall mirror your vessel's, in a perfect duet of agony that shall be spoken of in Commorragh for years to come."

Jak gripped his cutlass tighter. "Well the pleasantries didn't last very long," he muttered to himself. To the wytch he replied, "Your death will be short, and probably a bit messy. If you like, afterwards I'll sing a sea shanty for you."

The wytch lunged, stabbing her arm forward, despite being metres away from him. Her body didn't move, only the arm. And the sword. It snapped apart, the individual segments splitting, flying towards Jak like a flail, twenty blades connected along single line of mono-filament.

Jak barely had time to dodge, the blades flying so close to his face he could feel one shave him. He glanced down in horror at the dark hairs and single drop of blood that fell to the deck. His fingers to his cheek. They came away wet with blood, a gash so shallow he'd barely felt it.

"That was the first," Vetrianas said with satisfaction, jerking her sword hand up so that the flail clicked back cleanly into a single blade once more.

"Well let's try to make it the last," Jak grunted and dodged again as Vetrianas danced closer. He swung his sabre wildly, trying to force her onto the back foot. She'd be far too fast for him if she got within striking range, he had to keep her back. She fended his blow almost disdainfully. Unlike the Kabalite warrior's blade, her sword was clearly made from an alloy capable of standing up to a power sword. Blue and purple sparks flew when the blades crossed, and she moved gracefully to the side, dragging her sword down Jak's bare arm, cutting a second gash.

Jak roared with pain and frustration, driving forward. Like all sons of nobility, Jak had trained to duel with swords. He knew his Thibault from his Agrippa, but he had been an indifferent student at best. The Velazquez cutlass was much larger and heavier than a duelling rapier, and whatever fighting style this wytch had studied, she was far from indifferent in its application. In the name of survival Jak employed a defence sometimes referred to as the Templar cross, but more commonly as the "Swing and Pray", flailing his arm, first up and down then left to right, vigorously and ceaselessly. It made for an impressive barrier that even the lighting fast wytch struggled to penetrate. But it was a technique that could only last minutes before the practitioner inevitably tired and faltered. Then, Jak knew, he'd be gutted.

In contrast to Jak's fighting style, the wytch moved like she could fight all day, probing Jak's defences with almost playful intent, their swords sparking each time. As fatigue slowed Jak down he began to bleed from a half dozen cuts to his arms and legs, each one biting a little deeper. He screamed in pain as she spun behind him and slashed down his calf, then again when her upswinging blade caught his wrist. His cutlass fell clattering to the deck below, immediately sparking out as it left his hand.

Vetrianas smiled and took a step back, admiring her handiwork. "Do you feel it captain? Do you feel your ship dying?"

Panting heavily, Jak dropped his hands to his knees. Looking up from the curtain of dark hair that hunk lank with sweat against his face, Jak used the bulk of his body to cover the slow slide of one hand to his bandolier. "You're right, I definitely feel something. Give me a moment to work out what it is." His fingers moved across his grenades, identifying them by touch. As the wytch stepped forward to deliver her coup-de-grace, Jak trigged the grenade known as the Tanglefoot.

The Tanglefoot Grenade: a device so ancient and esoteric that only a handful of Forge Worlds still produced them. It worked by temporarily distorting the direction of local gravity over a small area, a delightful form of children's entertainment or a deadly form of discombobulation, depending on where you deployed it. Jak's had cost a small fortune and it was the only one he owned. He deployed it now to save his life.

The grenade activated. Jak and Vetrianas flew (or, depending on your point of view, fell) to the overhead deck. Gravity flipped itself around 180 degrees. Jak was ready for it and landed well, but even caught unawares Vetrianas twisted like a cat to land on all fours, hissing in surprise but never off balance. But Jak was already lashing out with a boot as he landed. His kick caught the wytch a heavy blow to the stomach.

Vetrianas tumbled backwards, spinning as gravity lurched around them, bodies of the dead and dying flying about like missiles. Jak ran down the side of the bulkhead, and launched himself at his cutlass as it flew past. Vetrianas was caught a knock to the side of the head by a passing body, smashing back into the bulkhead before she tumbled down.

Both Jak and the wytch dropped into crouches, trying to follow the movement of the ship around them as the tortured gravity field reasserted itself. Even fighting against gravity, Vetrianas retained her control, and lashed out with her razor flail. Jak jerked his cutlass up just in time, catching the flail. A string of blades wrapped around his sword, sparking ferociously as the two power fields ground together. Jak wrenched back, dragging the flail free from the wytch's grip.

Both dropped to the deck at the same time as gravity was finally restored to the ship's natural settings. Vetrianas' hair was a mess and her face was a mask of fury, the latter perhaps a result of the former. Ignoring the fact that she was disarmed, she launched herself at Jak. His second grenade caught her in mid-air, a shock grenade this time, designed to emit a blinding flash of light. Jak threw himself to the side, covering his eyes as the grenade went off.

Blinded and furious, the wytch was still deadly, and she leapt immediately to her feet. Head spinning from left to right, trying to track her prey with hearing alone, she might have been able to defeat Jak even from there if Dunor, fighting to stay conscious, hadn't reached out to grab her ankle, clinging with the last of his strength. The wytch stumbled and fell forward tumbling to the decking in front of Jak.

In the end it was a combination of skill, cunning, desperation and sheer dumb luck that led to victory. As it always does.

The Velasquez cutlass cut cleanly, slaying the former champion of the Belshammaroth Pit in a single blow.

* * *

When Jak arrived at the second chokepoint, he was carrying two blades, the Velasquez sword and the wytch's razor flail. Borjean quirked an eyebrow, but Jak was distracted by the corpse at his bodyguard's feet. It didn't look like an Eldar; its skin was black as the void and covered in fluorescent tattoos that writhed against its skin even in death. And it was clearly dead; no one could survive having one of Jestross' knives buried that deep in its chest.

"What is this?" He asked.

"Mandrake," Borjean said. "Only the second time I've ever seen one. Fast as sin and they move through shadows. The little red robe saved our hides. You're bleeding Sir." He added.

He waved it off. "Flesh wounds." He looked at the xenos sword in his hands. "Huh. You know what I should have said? I should have said, 'Sorry I don't know any sea shanties.' I never think of these lines in the moment."

"Sorry, Sir?"

Jak, blinked at Borjean, seeming a little dazed then shook the question off. He turned to Maternin, who was standing silently to the side, along with the one surviving armsman from Borjean's group. Naerin, if Jak was remembering her name right.

"How'd you save them, adept?"

"It was a simple solution in the end," Shyendi said, radiating modesty. "I merely observed that the creature was forced to interact corporeally with its surrounds in order to strike a killing blow, and that it was also went barefoot, visibly and audibly making contact with the ship's decking when it ran. I merely stepped back into this puddle, which was electrified by a loose wire, an obvious hazard. When he materialised to kill me, he did so in the centre of the pool and was instantly electrocuted, giving Mr Jestross the opportunity to slay him."

When this was met by awed silence from her captain, she continued awkwardly.

"I had to take an educated guess of course, that his body would respond to electricity as most organic species would, but my own boots are entirely insulated, so there was no great risk to me in comparison to the almost certain death that would have resulted from taking no action."

Jak put a hand gently on her shoulder, and appeared to be about to say something, but they were interrupted in that moment, by a sudden change in the air. Jak, Maternin, even Jestross sensed it and swivelled his head, searching for the source.

It was a moment marked by absence rather than presence, the cessation of something that had always been there on the edge of sensation. You never quite heard it or felt it, but the moment it was gone you suddenly became very away that it was missing.

Jak, who had lived almost his whole life aboard ships, was the first to be able to put a name to it.

"The void shields are down. They got to our shield drives. We're flying naked."

* * *

Jak sprinted back to the bridge as fast as he had ever run in his life. On arrival, it was clear that something had changed in the last half hour of battle. The Lysandrians were in disarray, all semblance of fleet formation lost and each ship on its own, desperately trying to escape the fray or hold off the swarming Dark Kin vessel. The _Portentia_ was in retreat, and the Eldar were focusing their fire on the _Unshakeable Will_ , which was holding the _Tears of Isha_ off at great cost.

Jak took all of this in with a glance at the holo-lith. The hollowness in the eyes of his bridge officers told him the rest. The Lysandrian Armada was not going to make it to the second fortress. They would be lucky if any of them escaped alive.

Al Dessi turned to him from the throne, her eyes flashing with the surging will of the Yolenna's machine spirits in her brain. "Sir, we've lost void shields. We've been trading fire with the _Agony Eternal_ but we won't hold up to another pass without the voids." Jak glanced at Dhukov, who gave a curt nod in agreement with the First Officer's assessment.

The _Agony Eternal_ was no longer in range, but the hololith gave her position dead ahead of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , her shadow field torn apart, seemingly for good this time, leaving her vulnerable to targeting by the Yolenna's lances. She'd be in range in under five minutes. One good shot from the lances might cripple her but the Eldar weapon had the greater range. Jak knew he couldn't win a straight shoot out with the Eldar warship.

Jak gestured to the rising Al Dessi to stay on the throne. There was no time for him to reconnect. He strode to the edge of the cupola, looking down at his weary crew. There was no time, either, to praise their dauntless work, or give them comfort. Survival was at stake.

"Ms Jate, please signal the _Unshakeable Will_ and inform her that we are disengaging from the battle. Also signal Captain Sinkmoss and advise him that we will rendezvous at the Mandeville and assess our damages there."

There was a palpable sagging of the bridge crew. Even amongst those who knew there was no other option the ignominy of retreat hit hard.

" _Agony Eternal_ coming in dead ahead, Sir." His Master of Etherics reminded him. Unsaid in her voice was this: if the _Yolenna Symphony_ tried to disengage now, the Eldar vessel would tear her apart. The narrow walls of the cobweb gave a captain only two options for retreat, and the Yolenna was not agile enough to be able to make a full 180 degree turn before the Eldar ship would be upon her.

"Thank you Ms Trigal. Helm, keep our current course, dead ahead, and wait for my mark. Mr Stieg, you can draw power from the shields, we won't be needing it there. All forward lances ready to fire, but I want Red Rhoda at minus 80 and 20."

Stieg gave him a questioning glance but the crisp "Aye, Sir" was all Jak wanted to hear from him. Red Rhoda was the ship's prow-mounted lance, a rare weapon in the Imperial Navy, almost unique to the Enforcer class of ships to which the _Yolenna Symphony_ belonged. Designated as system control vessels, built to keep recalcitrant planetary governors in line, each Enforcer ship carried a prow-mounted weapon that could swivel on both horizontal and vertical axes. This allowed a captain to fire a weapon down at planetary targets whilst still keeping his main lances pointed at foes in orbit.

On, in this case, it would allow Jak to pull off the manoeuvre that would save his ship.

The _Agony Eternal_ was coming in fast, like a jousting knight, head down and lance raised. No longer clouded by her shadow field, the Yolenna's sensors could show Jak every inch of deadly power packed into the sleek silhouette. He would get one chance at this he knew. It was a manoeuvre that would usually be calculated down to the last degree, but there was no time. He would have to trust in the expertise of his crew.

"Helm," he said, hearing the cool detachment in his voice. "Object A-4-20. You have it?"

"Aye, Sir. On your mark." The helmsman's voice matched Jak's in its composure. No more words were required to outline Jak's intent.

There was almost complete silence on the bridge. Jak stared ahead through the vista pane as if he could see the dark shadow of the enemy ship against the void. It was out there somewhere. A counter to his right was eating up the kilometres between the two vessels. Jak knew the range of the enemy ship, their duelling had revealed that information. Her dark lances would be powering up…

 _Now_. "Helm, hard to starboard and pitch up!" Jak barked.

"Aye Sir, starboard burn and up!" The scene through the vista panes suddenly lurched to the left, but the inertial dampeners were still working well and Jak felt only the slightest of tugs as the ship turned. "Fo'ard lances, fire!" He shouted, bracing.

The ship's lances fired together, the two primary lances firing straight ahead, whilst Red Rhoda struck out an angle, firing towards the _Agony Eternal_. The Eldar ship had got her shot off first. The lance beam struck alongside the Yolenna's portside, tearing straight through one of the flight decks. Whatever of Wing Commander Sokil's ships had survived the battle would have been vaporised instantly, along with the hundreds of support crew who would have been present on deck.

"Object A-4-20 has been destroyed, Sir." Al Dessi reported. The _Yolenna Symphony_ was making straight for the gap in the wall of the Cobweb, careering through a cloud of debris that dug great pockmarks into her armour. Jak knew it would be months before all the damage to her hull would be repaired, and the old girl might never be the same again.

"The _Agony Eternal_?" Jak asked. There was a pause before Minas Trigal answered.

"We hit her, Sir, straight through the beak. She overshot us and she's breaking off."

Jak finally allowed himself to breathe again. "Very good. Well done, all."

A screen to his left was blinking, shifting through images of deck after deck, providing dozens of damage reports from across the ship. The Eldar boarders might have killed hundreds in their assault, but thousands would have died on the decks that the Eldar lances had hit. It would be a long time counting the butcher's bill, and the Lysandrian Crusade was over. But the _Yolenna Symphony_ had survived.


	15. Part 2- Chapter 13

**Chapter 9**

The two warships, the _Yolenna Symphony_ and the _Portentia_ , wounded but still flying, punched through the asteroid field and fled across the inky darkness of the void. The Lysandrian Crusade had been a failure, and all but a handful of the crusader ships had been destroyed. The Letter of Marque warships belonging to Jak Velasquez had no intention of sharing that fate. Their working thrusters fired at full burn as they ate up the distance between the asteroid belt and the system's Mandeville point, the closest edge from which they would be able to make a warp translation and ensure their escape from the vicious blade ships of the Eldar Dark Kin.

Jak was alone in the captain's observatory tower, with a 360 degree panorama view of the empty void, when Garian Sykarin found him. The Lord-Captain embraced his former mentor warmly.

"Sykarin! Old man, I'd thought you'd been lost when that last shot took out the flight deck." He could not keep the relief or joy from his voice at seeing Garian alive and relatively unharmed. For his part, Garian seemed to recoil slightly from Jak's arms, as if pained. Jak wondered, if despite everything they had been through together, the old solider still struggled with having the man he'd once commanded as his captain.

"We had a warning to brace when the port side was exposed and we hunkered down in the old flight deck fire bunker," Sykarin explained.

"The bunker survived a direct hit from a lance beam?" Jak was amazed. The fire bunkers were designed for flight deck crew to secure themselves in if ordnance looked about to explode. Jak had never realised they were strong enough to survive something like a lance beam passing through the deck. "That's a handy little thing to know."

Garian grunted. "Well, hopefully it's not knowledge I'll ever have need of again."

Jak clapped a hand on Garian's shoulder. The funk that he'd been experiencing ever since they disengaged from battle felt momentarily lifted. For a split second he considered speaking openly with his Master at Arms, confiding his fears that the retreat had been a mistake and had shamed him in front of his crew. But he knew in his heart that those sorts of concerns were the Captain's alone to manage. He was a man now, not a boy, and he needed to keep his own counsel, in joy and defeat.

"Sir, I came to report on our work getting the Eldar vermin off our ship. If I may?"

"Yes," Jak jolted back to the present. "Carry on Mr Sykarin."

"We've got armsmen sweeping every deck, and the Grof's got his people working below the water line. Five boarding vessels penetrated the ship's hull and we've neutralised each one. If any survivors escaped, they shouldn't be able to hide for long, but I've posted extra guards at the essential systems in case of further sabotage attempts."

"Very good. Thank you Mr Sykarin. Anything else to report?" Jak's tone has taken on the formality of the Captaincy again, making Sykarin hesitate before he finally said, "It was well done, lad."

"Pardon?"

"The battle, and the disengagement. Your father could not have done it any finer. We were outnumbered and outgunned. You got us out of the fire."

Jak looked at Garian for some time, as the old man's words sunk in. He wasn't sure what to say.

It was the high pealing tone and red light flash of the alarm klaxons that saved him from having to respond. Jak's hand flicked to his com bead.

"Bridge, this is Velasquez. What's happening?"

Stieg's growl came back through the vox. "It's the bloody _Tears of Isha,_ Sir. The long scan picked her. She's on our tail."

* * *

The Eldar ships was hundreds of millions of kilometres away, at the edge of their auger range, but she had no shadow field operating and the etherics crew had easily identified her.

"She's hunting us, Ms Trigal?"

"Aye, seems like, us or the _Portentia_ , Sir. We'll know her true course in an hour or so."

"Makes no difference. Have the _Portentia_ change their course so that we can provide fire support if required." There was no point trying to hide; the Eldar had the auger gauge, and knew every trick in the book as far as etherics went. They would have known the location and direction of the fleeing Imperial vessels long before they'd been spotted, shadow fields or no.

The hololith field that they stood around was vast, with the three ships tiny specks at either pole. "So, a stern chase. The Dark Kin decided that they don't want the party to end, eh?" He smiled around the bridge but none of the assembled crew seemed to find the thing as amusing as he did. "Ms Al Dessi!" Jak called out. "I'll have the ward room together in ten minutes, thank you."

They were gathered in five. Jak took his time to look into each weary face, trying to gauge how they were reacting to his retreat. Finally he turned to the Yolenna's Master, the savant sailor who knew her better than any other. "Ms Beru, what do you make of the chase? How long do we have before the _Tears of Isha_ catches us?"

"You'll not mind an educated guess, Sir?"

"By all means."

"Sixty three hours before she's in lance range if we both keeping running at our current rates. I'll be able to say with more confidence once we've seen her chasing speed a little longer."

"And how far are we from the Mandeville point?"

"Flying as we are, seventy hours, Sir."

Seven hours difference, maybe less, maybe more. They'd get a better sense of the _Tears of Isha's_ speed as the chase continued, but seven hours was not an amount of time the Yolenna could survive with an Eldar torture cruiser firing on her.

"Dhukov, can we wring anything else out of the engines?" The Chief Enginseer shook his head sharply.

"My clergy are working ceaselessly to achieve even the speed that we have. We need time to rest her spirits, repair and reconsecrate damaged components, and run system tests before we even considering an increase in acceleration. Ideally we would be doing this while the ship's thrusters were not burning."

"Out of the question," Al Dessi said. "We stop accelerating and they'll take us, we're in no condition to fight a cruiser without our voids."

"We don't know what state the _Tears of Isha's_ in," Stieg pointed out.

"We have our scans from the battle," said Trigal. "The _Unshakeable Will_ did considerable damage to the _Tears of Isha_ , and she would have taken more damage when she disengaged to chase us. She does not look able to maintain her shadow field, for example."

Jak scratched at his beard. "We don't know that. She might just have wanted us to know that she was chasing us. Increase the fear aboard the ship, simmer us in our own juices before taking us. That's how these Eldar freaks operate. Besides, it only speaks to her confidence if she's chasing us without shadow fields. They've chosen the fight, and that means that they're confident that they can not only lick us, but take us alive too."

The more experienced officers all nodded gravely at that. The perversity of the Eldar and their desire for slaves and suffering drove everything they did. Jak's words had a logic to them. "How long until we can spool the voids back up?"

"The shield generators have been utterly desecrated by the actions of the xenos boarders. We have not begun to look at their repair, focusing our attention on the engines."

"What about the Gellars?" Al Dessi asked.

"The Gellar field's generator was not touched by the xenos, they do not seem to have made it to that part of the ship. It remains fully functional." Dhukov replied.

"So an escape to the Warp remains our best option," Jak mused.

"I can't believe that I am required to remind you of the impossibility of making a warp jump this distance from the Mandeville point." Seeros E'Al'Xandros had been slumped silently in his seat for most of the discussion, but the young _Navigator Primaris_ sat up, straight and indignant, at the mention of a warp jump.

"It's not impossible," Stieg grunted. "I've done it a dozen times or more. Easy enough if your Navigator's up to it."

"Are you up to it?" Jak asked quietly. The young man flushed red. He drew himself up to his full height, before realising the futility of his posturing. He confessed, "I've never attempted it. I wouldn't know how to start."

Stieg made a noise of disgust, but Jak's tone was gentle enough as he said, "It's important to know our limits Navigator E'Al'Xandros. Thank you for your frank assessment."

"It's a moot point in any case," Al Dessi pointed out. "We would need to rendezvous with the P _ortentia_ , and by the time we manoeuvred close enough, we'd be within range of the Dark Kin's sensors. They could easily follow us into the warp and take both ships on the other side."

"If we took the _Portentia_ with us," Stieg muttered darkly. Jak shot him a sharp look. It was far too early to be talking of sacrificing a ship.

"Alright, I've heard enough. We're not looking for another fight, gentleman. Trigal I want your people working with the Chief Navigator's to find us a sub-Mandeville point, somewhere he can jump us from without needing to reach the edge of the system. We're a few VU's from the last planet in the system, I'd start there. Dhukov, I plan to wring every ounce of burn from these engines when we need to. Spread the word amongst your priests and have them prepare accordingly. Everyone else continue with your duties. We have a ship to repair and a crew to keep calm."

A chorus of ayes met him and Jak nodded in satisfaction. The situation remained dire, but he wasn't going to let the Dark Kin take him without giving them a damn good run first.

* * *

The squad moved in silence, guns raised and torches shining into every dark corner. The only sounds Maternin could hear were the rhythmic rasp of her respirator mask, and the deliberate clank of each footfall as their mag-locked boots hit the decking. Maternin walked alongside Borjean, and a dozen armsmen, as they patrolled the _Yolenna Symphony_ , sweeping the ship clean of any remaining xenos boarder. Each teams of armsmen worked with a tech priest, to assist with managing the damaged passageways and broken airlocks throughout the ship.

Borjean had insisted on taking Maternin. "You're a good luck charm m'girl" he'd said enthusiastically. "It's always good luck to have someone who knows what they're doing, hey? With your brains and my beauty _qui prohiberus quo fas et gloria ducant_ , hey _?_ " The Captain's bodyguard seemed prone to drinking on the job and spouting off in High Gothic, but he clearly knew what he was doing, and the squad of armsmen who had known him as a sergeant treated him with wry affection.

They were stalking through a ruined part of the ship, passageways twisted and bulkhead vaporised by lance fire. Maternin's heart went out to the thousands of machine spirits snuffed out by the deadly power of the Eldar weaponry, as well as the crew who would have been cruelly ripped from the ship when the armoured hull was pierced. Every now and then they would see tragic reminders of what had been lost; a section of the hull torn open to the void, corpses of sailors whose mag boots had kept working even as their voidsuit respirators failed, gently waving from side to side as their feet remained locked in place, moving like strange kelp on a nightmarish ocean floor.

They had found no Eldar so far, but the ghosts of the Dark Kin attack could still be felt in the noosphere, disrupting Maternin's senses and occasionally interrupting vox communication. So they continued, Maternin working as a welcomed part of the team, so different from her recent experience with the ship's Enginarium. Word of the Mandrake had spread quickly, leading some of the armsmen to look at Maternin with expressions of quiet awe that she found unnerving.

She kept her mind focused on the task at hand, however, and soon caught something, a halo effect in the noosphere, rippling gently but perceptibly as something interfered with the ship's spirits. She gestured to Borjean, who nodded and held up his hand to indicate silence and call a halt amongst the armsmen.

Tracing the ripples through the noosphere, Maternin pointed to a crevice, about twenty metres down the passageway. It was one of a thousand ship-board shrines, a tucked away place for gathering worship during Warp travel, to keep the horrors of the Immaterium at bay. But emanating from the darkness behind the statue of the Emperor was the source of the electronic and noospheric inference.

"Alright then boys and girls. Good time for a teabreak, hey?" Borjean called out theatrically. "Let's just rest here a few minutes and then scout back down that last chokepoint." There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the armsmen, playing along with Borjean's silent gesticulating.

This particular passageway remained pressurised, with the grav-plates working fine, so Borjean and Maternin were free to slip out of their mag boots, and walk barefoot across the cold metal decking. They slipped silently through an open hatch, moved as quietly as they could manage through the algae processing plant on the other side, ducked through the gaps of a non-operational ventilation fan, crawled down the shaft, and came out beneath one of the great _vitae_ scrubbers on the far side of the altar.

They came on the Eldar unawares. The creature spun as soon as it heard them, raising its sidearm. Borjean flung his knife. The narrow blade pierced the alien through its hand. Its gun clattered to the deck, as the knife drove straight through the alien's gauntlet and pinned its hand to the stonework Emperor. The Eldar gave a shrill shriek of pain, gripping at its wrist with its free hand.

Borjean took the creature's helm off, whilst Maternin held her gun on it. Beneath the mask, the creature's narrow face was a twisted mask of hate and rage. It spat curses at them in a mix of its heathen tongue and low gothic.

"No time for your babbling blasphemy my friend," Borjean said, and knocked the creature unconscious with an expert blow. He gestured down at the floor, at the little device, shaped like a shining black beetle and sitting on a tripod of bladed legs. They'd only been able to sneak up on the Eldar because it had been so distracted with operating the device. "That its little box of tricks?" He asked. He pointed his sidearm at it, but Maternin held a hand up. "No," she said, her eyes transfixed on the device. "I want to try deactivating it myself."

* * *

In the brief time that he had to spare, Jak went down to the _Yolenna Symphony's_ medicae deck. It was an important duty he knew, although one he was dreading. The vault was overflowing with casualties, bearing all the most grievous wounds that resulted from void combat: burns, mangled limbs, decompression injuries, and the horrific injuries that the xenos weaponry had inflicted. The crew lay on beds, on makeshift pallets on the floor, propped up against medical equipment. The chirugeons, priests biologis and medicae savants had to step over bodies to go about their rounds, and step carefully at that, to avoid slipping in the blood and fluids that stained the floor. And these were the lucky ones, Jak knew. Hundreds, maybe thousands, had been lost forever, their bodies vaporised or vented out into the void. It would be days before they would be able to undertake a full crew census.

Jak moved more slowly through the vault, pausing amongst groups of the conscious wounded to congratulate them on their efforts and reassure them that the worst was over. He was looking for a few specific injured, but he stopped at each bed along the way, fixing every face in his mind and listening to every tale of bravery. Many were anxious to explain how they'd become injured and assure their captain that they'd done their duty. He smiled at each story and promised the crew they'd have their revenge on the Dark Kin one day.

Jak found Jestross easily; the giant alien stood out, not least because in a vault where every square foot of space was crowded with the desperate and the dying, people had still managed to give him a wide berth. The alien sat slumped against a wall, and a chirugeon had made an awkward effort to bandage him, but one arm still hung uselessly and Jak wondered whether he'd keep it. When he saw his captain, the alien gave a tired clacking noise that Jak recognised as a greeting.

"Heal fast," Jestross said weakly. "Back alongside thou in… no time."

"You better be," Jak said fondly. "No one else knows how I like my breakfast."

Hemas was in a bed, breathing with respirator assistance. He had lost a great deal of blood when the Eldar witch had skewered him, and had required emergency surgery, but the chirugeon tending to him told Jak that he was likely to survive. Dunor had not been so lucky. The brave bodyguard had died on the operating table.

Jak felt a pang of anger at that. He had not asked for a bodyguard, he had not asked for Dunor's sacrifice. Dying for the ship was one thing, that was a sacrifice he could understand. But to die for him? He remember Borjean's words. _The ship and the captain are one and the same._

As he was brooding on that, Jak's eye caught the life support vault that still housed his brother, Mustek Velasquez. Three sailors were propped up against it and trays of surgical equipment had been left on top of it.

"Mr Bore-Lyle!" He called out, and eventually the chief chirugeon appeared at his side. The jaundiced old man looked even worse than usual, exhaustion lending a waxy grey pallor to his skin. "How fares my brother?"

"Well, Sir. Well enough, all things considered. The vault held up during the battle, it's still doing its job. He'll be up and about again in a couple of weeks, no doubt."

"Well I don't want him being used as a spare bed." He gestured at the wounded sailors. "Do you have somewhere secluded you can move him?" Erasmus blinked. "Yes, Sir. We can find a private room. Why not? Just give me a moment." He shuffled off, and left Jak staring at his brother's vault. When his brother awoke command would fall to him, as the eldest surviving son. He would return the ships to the Calixis sector and all the blame for participating in the failed crusade and losing the _Siren's Wail_ would fall to Jak, with no chance to redeem himself. He shook his head, trying to clear it. There would be time to think of all of that when they were away safely, and they weren't there yet. Nowhere near.

* * *

For the next seven hours Jak stalked about the bridge, barking orders as the Yolenna Symphony strained desperately for every scrap of acceleration that could be mustered.

"You there! Clew up that helicon damn it! Clew up, clew up! Watch the heavy propellant! The sluice gate's at seven on the starboard sideburn, make way of it for the Growler!" Tech priests hurried to obey his shouted commands. Their display stations were awash with warning lights, dozens of systems redlining as the engines were pushed to their limits. If Dhukov was aggravated by the captain's heavy handed entry into the Chief Enginseer's domain he showed no sign of it, but fussed over the engines like an anxious parent, soothing machine spirits and fretting over the redlines.

Jak watched in satisfaction as a handful of dials wavered but held fast with his adjustments, and the ship's acceleration picked up another notch. Every minute counted in this stern chase. His bridge crew were quiet, all eyes but the tech priests' focused on the central holo-field, which displayed the Eldar icon inching its way ever closer to the Yolenna Symphony and the Portentia.

Jak gave it a quick glance, but no more, as he walked to the helm. Minas Trigal, his Master of Etherics, and Jeena Beru, his Ship's Master, waited for him there, standing alongside Maxillus, the Yolenna's helmsman. The ancient greybeard was wreathed in gold neuro-circuitry, and loops of wiring that clung to him like jewellery, threading into the gold-plated ship's wheel by which he controlled the Yolenna's trajectory.

"What do you have for me?" Jak asked, as he jogged up the stairs to the wheel. Trigal and Beru turned to him, but Maxillus kept his eyes ahead, always ahead. "The planet, Sir, Lysander VIII," Trigal said. "The _Navigator Primaris_ is not certain but we believe that we can make a running jump from Lagrange Point One and safely exit the system."

"How long until we make the Lagrange point?"

Beru glanced at Maxillus, who gave a non-committal grunt. "At our current rate of acceleration, I believe twenty three hours, Sir. But the _Tears of Isha_ moves faster than we gave her credit for. She gains on us at a prodigious rate."

"And we'd need to change heading to approach the planet, Sir, which shortens the angle between ourselves and the alien." Maxillus added. He wrists twitched as he did so, his neural networks allowing him to make perfectly calculated adjustments to the ship's direction and heading in response to the quirks of the ship's desperately firing thrusters.

"Is that a problem?" Jak asked.

"For the Yolenna, I do not think so," Beru said, "but the _Portentia_ is in far worse shape and will lose a great deal of distance in the turning."

Normally a smaller ship would be almost always be better off in a situation like this, but the damage done to the _Portentia_ by her misfiring torpedo and the Eldar lances had left her limping along, accelerating not much faster than the _Yolenna Symphony_. The change of heading would bring her behind the larger vessel. Jak briefly considered splitting his forces, sending the _Portentia_ off to the Mandeville point, but that would damn her for certain, making her easy pickings for the Eldar.

"Beru," Jak looked to the most experienced crew member and the one who knew their ship better than anyone. "What do you make of our chances?"

"You've done well to coax what you have out of her, Sir. I don't think we can ask for anything more from the engines. Yesterday I would have said that either path is a gamble, but we've lost too much distance on the xenos. A Lagrange Point running jump is our only hope, if the Navigator can pull it off, and even then I don't know that we make the jump point before the _Tears of Isha_ catches us."

Jack nodded, scratching his beard. "My thoughts as well. Very good then," he smiled. "Time we rolled the dice." Maxillus grunted, and Beru gave a nod, satisfied with the decision. Trigal was chewing her lower lip, the Master of Etherics clearly apprehensive.

"Smile, Ms Trigal," Jak said with a grin. "You've ridden into hell and back out again. It doesn't count if you don't smile."

He didn't wait for a response but strode back across the bridge, whistling a happy tune. It was important for the captain to show confidence in their chances. In truth, he might not feel confident in their chances but he was feeling as alive as he did during battle, his mind jolted into certainty by the demands of the task ahead. He walked up to the cupola and signalled Gerdal Sinkmoss.

"Mr Sinkmoss, how fares your ship?"

"We are at thirty seven percent casualties, Sir, but I believed we have stemmed the venting from the damage to the starboard side."

"I'm pleased to hear that. Gerdal," Jak softened his tone a touch. "You did damn well back there. Damn well. But it may come to another fight with the _Tears of Isha._ Will you be up to it?"

Sinkmoss hesitated a moment and when he spoke, there was none of the prickly pride that Jak had heard in his voice in previous meetings. "We are a torpedo boat, Sir, with only two torpedos and one torpedo tube. Our shields are still operational, but one good shot through the hull will tear the ship apart."

"I see. Well, I'm open to other suggestions."

"I have none Sir. I recognise that the situation for what it is."

"Indeed." Jak said. "Very well. I have consulted with my astronavigation team and I am ordering a change of heading. We will make for a Lagrange jump at Lysander VIII. And we will hope that the God-Emperor smiles our efforts."

"Yes Sir, and that the cursed Eldar's thrusters give out."

Jak chuckled. "That too."

The Helmsman made the change in heading, with no reduction in the ship's acceleration. The _Yolenna Symphony_ and the _Portentia_ came about, the latter wallowing through the turn with such difficulty that she went from slightly ahead of the larger ship to some way behind her. Jak gave the manoeuvres cursory attention but his main focus was on the distant icon of the _Tears of Isha_. A lot would depend on how quickly and effectively the Dark Kin responded to the new information.

It didn't take long to find out. The Eldar Ship moved like she was a landspeeder, not a four kilometre long cruiser, sliding smoothly onto a new heading so that she was now cutting across to intercept the Imperial vessels at an angle.

Jak glanced up at Jeena Beru. The Ship's Master shook her head with a grim expression.

"She's cut the distance between us by at least a quarter million kilometres, Sir. I'll recalculate the intercept time."

* * *

Having nothing better to do, Maternin went with Borjean as he handed the Eldar prisoner to the Ship's Confessor, a large bellicose individual who reacted with consternation to the unexpected guest.

"Why not just execute him?" He asked, thrusting three of his chins out belligerently.

"The Captain wants him interrogated. Might have a few things to teach us about how the Dark Kin go about their killing." Borjean said, with a shrug. The confessor scowled but accepted the prisoner. As they left, he muttered darkly, "Old Admiral Velasquez wouldn't have suffered this xenos filth to draw another breath, not after what they have done to us."

Borjean spun around, waving a fat finger at the Confessor. "The old Admiral might not have but the new Captain does. He wants you to interrogate the bloody prisoner and wring every last scrap out of him so that's what you'll do!"

Even the Confessor seemed silenced by that outburst, and didn't say another word as Maternin and Borjean walked away. Maternin got about twenty paces before she realised she'd left the old soldier behind. He was slumped against the wall, opening a flask with shaking hands. Adrenaline leaving his body she realised. His implants should have removed it more smoothly than this, but all the alcohol was probably interfering with their neuro-mechanical processes.

"Too bloody close that was," Borjean muttered, shaking his head. He looked up and gave Maternin a weak grin. "You seem to have managed yourself very well though." She gave a shrug, a gesture she had learnt from the crew. Binary had no need for body language but to those whose first language was gothic it seemed to mean a great deal. In this case, the gesture felt perfectly adequate to sum up all of Maternin's ambivalence towards combat, her discomfit with being considered a fighter, and her inability to describe the fear that she had felt in the midst of the battle.

"Come have a drink in my cabin with me," Borjean said abruptly. Maternin immediately opened her mouth to protest politely but he waved a hand as if sensing her hesitation. "Oh I don't mean like that. You're not my type, little red robe. It's just been a long bloody day and I'm trying to drink alone less. Jak's too busy being in charge, Jestross is in the medicae, and Garian… Garian's changed since the old man died. Since before then, really." He seemed to become lost in thought for a time, before rallying to his usual cheery self. "Besides," he added, gesturing with his flask, "you've got no privacy in the Enginarium, and you'll need it if you want to investigate that little Eldar toy of yours."

With a guilty start, Maternin's hand went to her robe, where she had secreted away the Eldar's electronic device. It was tech heresy to even consider examining the device, but she could not help herself. There was so much that could be learned from it, so much knowledge that could benefit the Imperium. Really, how was it any different to interrogating a prisoner?

Borjean chuckled at the very human expression that had crossed the tech priest's face. "I think this is the beginning of a fine friendship, little red robe. Stick with me and I'll teach you everything I know about life."

"Do you think we're going to survive that long?" She asked. Borjean grinned, a thick, meaty smile.

"Oh I think we've got a fair chance. I've known Jak Velasquez since he was a little baby armsman under my command, you see. There are two things I know about him: He doesn't know how to hold his liquor and he's at his best when backed into a corner. Don't bet against the captain, little red robe. You'll lose every time."

* * *

After the change of heading, Jak gave the bridge to Al Dessi, had a quick breakfast (far poorer than his usual fare with Jestross still in the medicae bay) and snatched a few hours of sleep. One of the Merry Servants woke him up before the change of watch, and he showered, dressed and trimmed his beard. Jak stared at the face that looked out at him from the mirror. Lord-Captain Velasquez. The man that tens of thousands of lives were looking to for salvation.

He strode out onto the bridge and took the cup from Al Dessi, ordering his exhausted first officer to get some sleep herself. One glance at the hololith told him everything he needed to know, but he consulted with Beru to hear it said out loud.

"We're sixteen hours from the translation point. The _Tears of Isha_ will be in lance range of the _Portentia_ in less than eleven hours. She will be in lance range of the _Yolenna Symphony_ in twelve and a half."

Three and a half hours difference. It wouldn't be enough. His options were clear, he knew, there was no putting off the inevitable. There was only the matter of committing to a decision and giving the command. A glance at Beru's face confirmed his thinking.

He felt all eyes on him as he brought up the _Portentia,_ and Gerdal Sinkmoss' drawn face.

"Mr Sinkmoss, I need you to come about and engage the _Tears of Isha_. I believe that the evasive actions that the Eldar will need to take may buy the Yolenna the time that she needs to make the jump point."

There was a long pause at the other end, Sinkmoss so still that Jak wondered for a moment if the image had frozen. "Mr Sinkmoss, do you copy me?"

"Yes, Sir. Permission to crew the Salvation pods, Sir?"

Jak nodded. "Aye. Aye do that. Put as many non-essential able crew as you can fit aboard anything that can catch up to us. The Yolenna will pick them up."

"Thank you, Sir. I will make the course adjustment and engage the enemy."

There was little expression on Sinkmoss' face, but a slight change seemed to come over him, a return of his pride and ramrod straight bearing, a dissipating of his exhaustion, replaced by determination. He was fully aware of what Jak was asking him to do.

"You're a Letter of Marque's man, Mr Sinkmoss. This isn't the service and I can't ask you to sacrifice yourself. But it's the only way any of us get out of this chase alive. As soon as you've fired that last torpedo you are free to take whatever action you see fit."

"Very good, Sir." That was all he said. There was no argument, no anger, no despair. Just a man willing to do what was required. "I will go make the preparations, Sir."

Jak stayed on the bridge and watched as the Portentia followed a long, slow turning circle to bring herself about and point her remaining torpedo tube at the oncoming _Tears of Isha_. Small glyphs across the hololith indicated the dozens of ships leaving the Portentia, tiny life vessels scrambling across a gaping void. They accelerated faster than the larger ship could, and would be picked up by the Yolenna before her warp jump.

Then it was simply a matter of waiting. Waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the _Tears of Isha_ to come into range. Waiting for the last stand of the _Portentia_.

As the first torpedo fired, Jak voxed a final message to the _Portentia's_ captain. As the vox channel opened up, he could hear the war-choir of the _Portentia_ singing their final battle hymns to the bridge crew.

"Mr Sinkmoss, my father had a number of captains wishing to sign on with him for this voyage. He chose you. I do not believe he could have made a finer choice."

The brief battle that followed played out across the hololith with the inescapability of all great tragedies. The _Tears of Isha_ took evasive action, bringing her portside turrets around to bear on the torpedo, detonating it at a safe distance a thousand kilometres away from impact. Rather than fire her final torpedo, the _Portentia_ turned to port as well, bringing the good side of her hull around to face the lance fire. It made no difference; the Tears of Isha fired twice, cleanly crippling the Imperial vessel, leaving her floating dead in space. Then the torture cruiser moved in for the human plunder.

But Gerdal Sinkmoss had one last trick up his sleeve, one final torpedo, a fifty metre long behemoth of destruction, packed to the gills with volatile plasma munitions. "Never let them be captured alive," Jak heard himself murmur.

When the glyphs for the Tears of Isha and Portentia were so close that they overlapped each other on the hololith, both suddenly flickered red and disappeared.

He glanced at Trigal, who briefly consulted with her officers. "Sir, it appears that the _Portentia_ detonated her final torpedo amidships, destroying herself before it could be taken. The _Tears of Isha_ appears to have disappeared as well. She was well within the blast radius."

There was a murmur of relief from the assembled bridge crew, but something kept Jak's eyes on the wavering green image in front of him. The minutes ticked by.

And then there it was. A small flicker from the auger arrays, but in his mind's eye Jak could see it, could see the true horror of it. Cutting through the carnage of the destroyed _Portentia_ like a knife, its shadow field snapping and crackling around it, the _Tears of Isha_ emerging from the wreckage, denied her prize but unscathed. Unscathed and raging, coming hard for the _Yolenna Symphony_.

Jak glanced at Ms Beru, on the other side of the hololith field. Through the great wall of hazy green light, it was impossible to make out the Ship Master's expression.

"We've gained two hours on her, Sir."

"God-Emperor on his throne," Jak breathed. "Ten thousands souls for two hours."

* * *

"It can't be done."

Seeros E'Al'Xandros, _Navigator Primaris_ of the _Yolenna Symphony_ was flanked by his attendants, his young face a mask of sneering determination. "It can't be done and you can't make me do it."

"It will be done." Jak said. "We have no other choices left to us."

"You don't understand," the navigator said, changing tack, his tone now a whine. "The ship has not decelerated at all. You can't ask me to translate in a space the size of a coin travelling at this speed. And then to cloud the warp behind us? Impossible. You have to understand. It's impossible!"

"No. Stop. Listen." Jak held his temper, but his tone was enough to silence the Navigator. "I know you're frightened and I don't care. It will be done because we have no other choice and you will succeed because I know you can. I've gone through the etheric logs of every warp translation since this journey started. From the time the Captain says mark to the time the warp opens up is 1.23 to 1.46 seconds. That's how long you take. That's our window. I'm going to say 'Mark', you're going to do your thing as fast as you can and we're going to hit the Warp running, close enough to the L-point that the ship won't tear itself apart."

"And then cloud the warp? You don't how dangerous that is! How difficult!"

"Here on the _Yolenna Symphony_ we do the dangerous and the difficult every day," Jak smiled. "And the impossible every week." But gentle humour was not going to work on the frightened Navigator.

"No!" He screamed, thumping his fist down on his throne. He attendants chittered nervously and threw outraged glances at their Captain, but Jak ignored them. With a sigh of resignation, he uncooked his las-carbine from his hip holster and pointed it at the Navigator.

Seeros gulped, but then sneered. "You wouldn't dare," he hissed. "I am your only Navigator."

"And you're refusing to do your job. Refusing a direct order. The penalty for that is execution, even for a Navigator."

Again, the Navigator seemed to snap between haughty condescension and pale-faced terror in an instant. "You don't understand," he muttered. "There are worse things than death. Far worse."

"I know," Jak said quietly. "There's me. And if you won't do your job you doom us all. We'll all be dead, I'll blow this ship up before I let those bastards take it. But before that I'll march you to a damn airlock and hand you over to those torture-loving alien madmen myself. It will be the last damn thing I do, I promise you that, Navigator. And we'll see how right you are about fates worse than death."

The attendants hissed. They looked like they were considering raising their own weapons, but even alone, unflanked by his guards, there was something in Jak's bearing that made them hesitate. Seeros took a deep breath and drew himself up with as much regal majesty as the young mutant could muster. He was so young, Jak thought. Nearly as young as Jak himself.

"Very well, Lord-Captain," Seeros gave the words a bitter twist. "You leave me no choice. You'll have your warp jump."

* * *

The tension on the bridge seemed to become a thick, palpable thing in the presence of the Gellar Fields. As they spooled up, the atmosphere took on an oily oppressiveness. Jak ignored it, just as he ignored the sweat on his brow and the sting of his wounds, a recent reminder of his clash with the Dark Kin witch.

But he'd come out of that one in one piece, and the witch's blade hung on his wall now. He would come through this too.

The _Tears of Isha_ was in striking range now, but at this distance her accuracy was not perfect, and she was aiming to slow down the Yolenna rather than destroy her. A couple of glancing blows had skimmed her hull, and a lucky shot had destroyed one of the ship's augur arrays, but they were moments away from the Lagrange Point now. Only a successful warp jump stood between the crew of the _Yolenna Symphony_ and salvation.

" _Quinque_ ," Dhukov intoned, his rebreather adding an ominous bass rasp to the ancient words of ritual, as the ships prepared for translation. Seeros had not been wrong about the difficulty of the manoeuvre. A jump to the Warp in the gravitational shallows of a Lagrange point, at such a speed that they needed to time the action to within a tenth of a second; Jak had never heard of it being pulled off.

" _Quattourum_." The war choir had been brought aboard the bridge, their numbers somewhat diminished by their casualties, but their voices still ringing and clear, lending what strength and comfort they could to the nervous crew.

" _Tres_." Jak glanced across at Al Dessi. His first officer remained a mystery to him. Did she approve of the actions he had taken? Did she respect them? She had said almost nothing since they had left the Cobweb, no words of support, advice or condemnation.

" _Due_." Jak's fingers dug into his throne. The whole ship shook as a final desperate shot from the Eldar struck their hull. But it was too late now, too late for the Dark Kin to claim their prize and Jak could almost hear the rage and venom of the prideful creatures as their chase ended in failure.

" _Unus_ "

"Mark!" Jak barked down the vox. Every lumen and candle on the bridge flickered and dimmed for a moment, as if a vast shroud had been dragged over the ship. Jak blinked, feeling the soul-sickening taint of the Immaterium, the greasy sense of wrongness, the stomach-churning nausea of your worst fears and doubts being stoked like a fire. And then the colour, the great whirlwind of indescribable colour as the foul energies of the warp battered against the Gellar Field.

"Dhukov?" Jak croaked, his fingers gradually uncurling from their grip on the throne.

His Enginseer took some time to reply. That was as rocky a warp jump as any of them had experienced. Finally he spoke. "We have translated successfully. We are submerged within the Immaterium, our escape path clouded behind us. The _Navigator Primaris_ has succeeded."

And then the screaming started.

* * *

It took them two hours to break into the Navigator's Sanctum. The circular sanctuary in the ship's tallest spire was both a palace and a prison, electronic codes, sacred wards, and inches of solid adamantium serving to keep boarders out from the most valuable room on the ship.

And sometimes to keep whatever emerged within the Navigator's mind in.

The screaming continued for the first twenty minutes, and then there was nothing left but a faint bubbling growl, like that of an upset stomach. A vox channel had been left open but they had been unable to communicate with anyone. It was not until the Infernus Master, the Ship's Confessor and the Enginseer Primaris had finally broken the door down that they discovered why.

Backed by a squad of armsmen wielding hellguns, Garian Sykarin burst into the sanctum, followed by Jak and Dhukov. Blood covered the walls and floors, but that was not the first thing that drew the eye. That foul honour belonged to the amorphous mass of bubbling, seething flesh that had once been _Navigator Primaris_ Seeros E'Al'Xandros, flailing ill-formed limbs and trying to drag itself about the room. The creature had murdered all of the late Navigator's attendants, tearing them apart or consuming them, it seemed. Parts of its body were translucent globs, through which scraps of bone and jewellery could be seen floating almost peacefully.

The young Navigator had been right. There were worse things than death lurking in the Immaterium. And one of them had sensed his vulnerable mind and sunk its talons in deep.

It took two minutes of concentrated fire for the creature's earthly form to be destroyed, severing its connection to reality and banishing it back to the Warp. In the silence that followed –save for the sound of one armsmen still vomiting his guts up in the background- Jak paid attention to the groaning and lashing of warp energy against the straining Gellar Field. It had grown louder over the past two hours, and the thick tangle of warp energy seeping in through the Gellar bilges could make any man queasy, even one as used to the Immaterium as Jak Velasquez. That could only mean one thing.

Jak threw his head back and laughed till his whole body shook. He only stopped when he felt Garian's hand on his shoulder. His Master of Arms was looking strangely at him, face wrinkled with concern.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

"Alright, Mr Sykarin! How could I not be? Can you feel it? Just in case you thought things were going to get boring, we're caught in a warp storm with no bloody navigator."


	16. Part 2- Chapter 14

**Chapter 10**

The _Systema Immateria (_ otherwise known by its Low Gothic title, A Psychosystematic and Infernocladistic Taxonomy of the Denizens of the Immaterium')is a required text aboard every naval vessel in the Imperium. It is a carefully cultivated catalogue of every publicly known entity that dwells in the Warp. Its author, Saint Alessio, attempted to counter the chaotic and ever-shifting nature of daemons by a system of exacting precision, pouring over battle reports and witness statements for over two centuries before finally settling on his classification system. Although it is a requirement that the book be kept in a consecrated vault sealed within the ship's Librarium, and although captains are advised to consult it for no longer than one dog's watch over the course of a standard naval month, the _Systema Immateria_ is in fact a remarkably stable and uncorrupted book for one designed to deal specifically with the classification and description of daemon-kind.

St Alessio nailed the vicious creatures down into their various categories as firmly as lepidopterist pins a butterfly to the page. He tamed their wild corrupted nature, which in other circumstances could seep into the very pages on a book about them, through his own precise, borderline obsessive approach to identifying the order beneath the chaos. He searched for patterns and predictability, and in his own quiet way, he fought the chaos of the Warp through the process taxonomy. His text went on to become an invaluable source of knowledge for ship captains who experienced the misfortune to be invaded by 'flotsam', warp-fiends, daemons, of whatever other name they chose to use.

The _Systema Immateria_ was the reason that, for example, Jak knew that the creature currently tearing off an armsman sergeant's face in front of him was known as a 'pink horror', and that the advisable method of killing it was a full vent of the corrupted ship-section, so as to avoid regeneration and contamination.

Jak was on his arse, scrabbling backward, firing his shot-cannon desperately at the gibbering, gore-spattered creature. The shrapnel lacerated it terribly, but the wounds resealed with speed, or shimmied across its like awful wriggling worms. The horror laughed with a child's delight through its simian mouth, which seemed to flow across its fat, pink midsection, moving from side to side and around the creature's body, cackling all the while. Its legs and feet sprung haphazardly from the mid-section, stringy limbs with muscles bulging out like balls stuffed into a sock. They were caked in blood from the sailors it had torn apart. For a squat, skinny, childlike little nightmare it had horrific strength, and it never stayed still.

Horror's filled the corridor now, and the armsmen were in a fighting retreat, moving backwards door by door, sacrificing themselves to hold the creatures at bay so that as many sailors as possible could escape before the entire deck-section was vented. Jak had thrown himself straight into the action when the alarm klaxons had sounded taking up a shot-cannon and fighting alongside his men, till he had slipped and fallen onto decking awash with blood.

As the horror danced closer, Jak fired again, and this time the shot hit it with enough force to send it tumbling backwards, still laughing as it rolled. It flipped back onto its feet and its mouth seemed to bob up from between its legs, the forked tongue swaying like a charmed cobra. "Where's your father, Jak?" It called out through its thick lips. "Whether your broooother?"

Jak had been taught since he was a child that the strange aliens of the warp couldn't think for themselves. St Alessio had been very clear on this point. They could not think and they could not truly speak, but as they drifted through the psychic morass of the Immaterium, they picked up detritus from the ebb and flow of human thought. One might experience this as voices, even intelligent, conversational voices, whispers and taunts, doubts and fears from the very depths of your own mind spouted by creatures with no more true intelligence that ham sandwich. It was these voices that could lead so easily to warp madness.

It is a point of pride amongst a certain type of dedicated ecclesiastical scholar that Saint Alessio did not finally go insane until five years after his text was completed, and that the only person he murdered in his final deranged rampage was his editor.

Because of the _Systema Immateria_ Jak knew not to listen to the horror's words, although they shook him to his core. "Where's your father Jak?" The creature laughed, hopping forward on one foot. "Where your moooother?" It hooted the last word, lips pursing in joyous mockery. Jak scowled and jammed the barrel of the shot cannon into the creature's mouth, firing again.

Of course the creature spoke of his family. By their very nature daemons are chaos, surging manifestations of jumbled emotion, sensation and urges. To confront them one must confront one's own emotions, conquer the doubts and fears, slow down the hectic bedlam of the mind, and find the steady tranquillity of inner peace.

And then shoot the hell out of them of course.

As the little horror went flying backwards, it's face blown clean off its still moving body, Jak pushed himself to his feet. "Pull back!" He screamed to his soldiers. "Pull back to the Blast Door Altar." He kept firing as he moved backwards. More horrors were coming now, and more sailors too, desperately trying to escape in a panicked rushed down the narrow confines of the passageway.

Another horror took a running leap forwards, and Jak tried to track it with his gun, firing at in mid-air. He thought he hit it, but it wasn't enough to stop its momentum. It knocked a sailor to the ground, flailing arms tearing through the material of her void suit. Three other armsmen fired their guns, but the creature kept moving, sinking its vicious little talons in with rabid frenzied motions. A fourth shot at least ended the sailor's screams. They kept retreating.

At the Blast Door Altar, Jak paused, watching those still running down the corridor in, caught agonised hesitation. "Keep going!" He yelled, but he could see that it was too late. The horrors were too numerous, too close. They couldn't risk one coming through. He slammed his hand on the emergency release button and stepped back as the doors slid closed with heavy finality.

"Bridge, this is Velasquez," he gasped into his com bead. "Blast Door 2-40-10 Secure. External lock and vent passageway."

Through the small porthole in the blast door he could see the frantic face of a crewman, fist pounding desperately on the plasglass. Soon that sight was replaced by blood and the lashing tongue of a gibbering horror. And then a light at the side of the door switched from green to red and the creature suddenly disappeared, sucked out into the Warp from whence it had come.

Jak finally let his gun fall from his hand then, dropping down with his hands on his knees. "I should have said, 'Where's your face?'" he muttered to no one in particular. "That would have been a good one."

"Captain," came Al Dessi's concerned voice through the com bead. "Are you ok? Can you confirm you're unhurt?"

"Aye," he panted, flicking sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. "Never better. What's our status?"

"The incursion is over Sir, but we're still losing integrity in the Gellar field. Sprung a prayer wheel on the thirty nine and Magos Azirathul can't assess the damage till they've balanced the load, so we're at sub-optimal protection for at least an hour."

"Very well. Inform the Confessor; no one sleeps and no one goes alone until we're at full fidelity. All spare hands to the votive shrines and give the Magos Aegis my complements; the _striga purgitorium_ is our top priority until we've got a straight board."

"Yes, Sir. We'll need time to count casualties. Can you confirm how many survivors are with you? We originally had one hundred and," there was a pause as Al Dessi consulted is hushed tones with a junior officer. "One hundred and twenty two crew were scheduled to be working on the section of the ship that was vented."

Jak looked about at the half dozen bloodied survivors who had escaped the carnage with him.

"Sir? Can you still hear me, Sir?"

It was their fifth day in the storm.

* * *

It was an exhausted and depleted wardroom that greeted Jak a few hours later. He gestured at them to remain seated as he entered and half sat, half fell into the Captain's chair. He took a long gaze across the weary faces, noting the empty seats with a sense of sadness that he forced quickly down within himself.

When Seeros E'Al'Xandros had clouded the warp it had saved them from the Eldar, but also drawn in such tempestological psychic forces as to cause a localised warp storm, an Immaterial phenomena of the gravest threat to a ship's fragile reality preserving Gellar fields. Seeros had been the first ward room casualty of the warp storm but not the last. Likedraw Sokil, the Wing Commander without any wings to command had been taken by warp madness on the second day. In his rage and despair he had lifted a weapon against his fellow officers and been cut down by nearby armsmen. Minas Trigal, the young Etherics Master, had been a victim of the first daemonic incursion on the third day, devoured on the bridge by a creature that had swum through the ship as easily as if it were underwater, leaving scorched and twisted metal at each bulkhead it passed through. Rollyk No Koll, the Master of the Purse, had barricaded himself in his own room on the fourth day, reportedly bellowing about a guilty conscience for some hours until he had finally fallen silent. No one had possessed the energy to force their way in and see if he was still alive.

The casualties were in the hundreds, maybe thousands by now. There was too much to do just to keep the ship flying that no one had time to yet count those lost. And for Jak, there was the weight of leadership, the responsibility to find a way out of this mess.

"Dhukov," Jak said, "Do you have a report from the Magos Aegis?"

The Chief Enginseer looked no different than he usually did, immaculately dressed in resplendent red robe, any fear or exhaustion hidden behind the glowing green eyes and metal mask.

"The Gellar Field is operating within normal parameters once more. We have repaired the overcharged wheel drive, and are pumping the psychic effluvia from the Gellar bilges currently. Also, I can report that we believe the storm is dying down."

That received a heartfelt murmur of relief from the assembled officers, but Al Dessi's face creased in consternation.

"How can you say that with such confidence? How can we know without a Navigator to look into the Immaterium?"

"It is our conjecture, based upon the activity being experienced across the Gellar Field cross-referenced with reports from the ship's helmsman, who has a certain degree of unscientific experience in these areas which nevertheless had proven accurate in the past."

It was thanks to that helmsman, Maxillus that they had survived as long as they had. Flying blind, without the aid of a Navigator to describe the ocean of madness before him, the helmsman had steered with the roll of the storm, trying to guide the _Yolenna Symphony_ to its low side so that she could ride through the psychic waves without being torn apart by them.

"In short," Dhukov continued, "we believe the effects of the storm to be diminishing." As if in response, his comment was met by a crashing shudder, as the raw forces of unreality slammed against the ship's psychic shields, and the room seemed to shudder and stretch for a moment, as if the adamantium and cerasteel had suddenly become rubber. Jak put his hand to the table to steady himself, but he had grown used to the lurching sickness of these storm waves over the past few days. He gritted his teeth and rode the sensation out, whilst others struggled to keep their seats, and his Master of Stores threw up messily in his own lap.

"Diminishing," Dhukov repeated once the wave had passed. "Although it will be at least twenty four hours before we expect to reach calm."

"And then?" Jak asked, addressing his ward room. "What are our options?"

He was met with blank silence. It was Ravenna Al Dessi who first hazarded an answer.

"Sir, our option are limited without a living Navigator. We are at the mercy of the Warp."

His second officer, Stieg, thumped a fist on the table. "I told the old man we needed more Navigators. One stammering whelp for three ships! We were mad not to demand House E'Al'Xandros give us two Navigators per ship!"

"Shut your fool mouth Stieg," the First Officer growled at him. "We couldn't afford what they were asking. Plenty of trading fleets get by with one Navigator if they plan their runs right."

"Without a Navigator," Dhukov cut across their snapping, his toneless rasp conveying no interest in the quarrel, "we are unable to identify a safe point as egress from the Immaterium. As such, I would estimate an approximate 90% chance that any attempted egress would result in the utter disintegration of the ship before we had any chance to realise our mistake."

Jak scratched his beard thoughtfully. "So we'd have a ten percent chance of survival?" The Enginseer inclined a head. "No, my apologies for confounding you. I had naturally approximated a near to ten percent likelihood that our attempts would draw the attention of a warp entity that would destroy us with its own alacrity, rather than the psychic or gravitational forces that would otherwise tear apart the ship. The chances of an outcome that would result in our survival are infinitesimal."

"What the Enginseer is trying to say, Sir, is that we need a safe point to jump from or we're done for," this from Jeena Beru, his veteran Ship's Master. "I know what you might be thinking Sir, I've seen a hundred captains reckon they can try a blind jump outside of a known translation point, and just see where they ended up. None of 'em came back to tell the tale of if it worked though."

"So we simply need to locate a safe point to jump from?" Beru shook her head. "Can't do it without a Navigator, Sir."

"Humour me, people," Jak smiled, leaning forward over the table. "What would we need to be able to get out of this mess _without_ a Navigator?"

Dhukov raised a finger. "An Explorator ship would calculate its position prior to translating into the Warp, and chart a course accounting for known tidal factors, psychic and gravitational obstacles and possible variations due to… meteorological phenomena. But all this would be based on known charts and would need to occur prior to translation from realspace. We have lost that opportunity."

"We were already on the far edge of known space when we jumped," Beru pointed out. "We may be beyond the known charts."

None of the other officers were speaking up. Few could make eye contact with their Captain. They seemed deprived of all hope.

"So you're saying it's not possible?" Jak asked.

Dhukov nodded. He alone seemed unmoved by their plight. "I am saying that I can think of no conceivable scientific method by which we can chart a safe pathway out of the Warp."

* * *

Jak returned to his great cabin, his guards at his heels. Borjean was waiting at the door, to take over from them, the old soldier barely able to stand and reeking of grog. He dismissed the guards, Travenor and Iko, and followed Jak into the cabin.

"I thought you were getting sober?" Jak asked, dropping down onto the chaise. It was a soft, immaculate lounge, upholstered in red velvet, one of the few decadences that Oberon had allowed himself. He stretched out on it with his boots scuffing the velvet. "What happened to that plan?"

Borjean leered and waved the flask at him. "No man should try to dry up in a warp storm, dear captain. Do you want some?"

Three hours later the two of them were roaring drunk. Jak lay across his desk, whilst Borjean sat sprawled against it, draining another bottle. The late Oberon Velasquez had not been a drinker, and his meagre collection of spirits had existed only to offer guests, but Jak and Borjean had made their way through all of it.

"To the last flight of the _Yolenna Symphony_!" Borjean cried.

"Aye!" Jak bellowed. "To the Yolenna!" He raised his bottle too enthusiastically and found himself toppled onto his bodyguard. The corpulent Borjean gave a furtive 'whoof' of pain as he tried to extricate himself from out under his Captain. "The Yolenna," he murmured, the words slurring as they tripped from his drunken lips. "Yolenna. A fine woman. A fine woman your mother."

For a moment Jak paused, mid gulp, as the memory of Yolenna Velasquez hit him like a cannon ball. He had not seen a great deal of his mother growing up, but she had left as strong a mark on him as his father had, in her own way. He remembered her eyes, fierce and darks, alive with the promise of adventure. He remembered the way that the beads in her braids clacked together as she ran, or when she swung her head. He remember the way she used to draw a finger down his nose and smile at his when he was frightened. "Hold fast, my son," she'd whisper. "There's always another answer."

He could not remember a time when she and his father had been on speaking terms. But some spark of their love must have remained. She had kept the name Velasquez, after all, and he had named his flagship for her.

"What's a name mean?" He asked himself, staring wonderingly through the opaque glass.

"Eh?" Said Borjean, a little too well sauced for philosophy.

"I messed it all up, Mr Narn. The _Yolenna Symphony_ , the _Siren's Wail_ , the _Portentia_. I've lost them all. Tried to follow in their footsteps and I've lost them all."

"No, no lad. Ships don't have footsteps. Have… vapour trails maybe?"

"Not the ships' footsteps. Father's. Mother's."

"Aah Yolenna," Borjean nodded. "A fine woman." Then he seemed to process what Jak was saying finally. "No. No, no, no lad," he protested, with the ardency that only a drunk can muster. "You did your best. Bloody Eldar and the Immaterium and shonky torpedo tubes. That's what did you in. Would do the same for any Captain."

Jak lay back against the warm, soft carpet. The Captain's great cabin. He'd always imagined himself here one day, always known himself destined for greatness. He hadn't realised that he'd been destined to take that greatness and throw it all away.

The swoosh of the door opening made him sit up. Only the First Officer could override the Captain's door lock. Jak pushed himself clumsily to his feet as he saw Ravenna Al Dessi advance on him. He had never seen his First Officer look so angry.

"Captain!" It was all she said, and then she stood there, alternating between gape mouthed confusion and teeth grinding fury as she struggled to find the words. Finally professionalism got the better of her and she said "Sir, may I take it that you failed to attend a call to the bridge because you were otherwise indisposed?"

Jak steadied himself on the side of the desk. "I was getting blind-arse drunk XO! Do you want to join us?"

"Borjean, you are dismissed." Ravenna said between gritted teeth. Jak tried to sit himself on the edge of the desk and succeeded on the second attempt. Borjean remained on the ground. "Only th' captain can dismiss me," he said, the disapprobation in his voice diminished somewhat by the burp that followed.

"Borjean, you pathetic, pickled excuse for a man, get out before I throw you out. I want to speak to the Captain alone."

Jak waved a hand. "You are dismissed Mr Narn. You can wait outside the door while the XO and I converse."

Al Dessi held herself in silence while Borjean slumped out of the room.

"You know," Jak grinned what he was sure, in his inebriated state, was his most winning grin. "Ravenna, you should relax. If we're all going to die, I'd like to see you let your hair down a little first."

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, his ears ringing and jaw aflame with hot and cold pain. He looked up to see Ravenna rubbing some feeling back into her knuckles. "Damn you," she hissed.

Jak lifted himself up slowly, hand to his jaw. "No one's hit me that hard since father," he said quietly.

"Don't you dare mention your father, damn you." There were tears in Ravenna's eyes. "Everything he did for you. All the opportunities he gave you and this is how you squander it. Getting drunk in his cabin while forty thousand souls work their hearts out to save your sorry hide."

"What do you want me to do Al Dessi? You heard Dhukov. There's no way out of this one."

"So that's it? You just surrender? You asked Sinkmoss and the _Portentia_ to die for us. You asked Seeros to die for us. If you stop trying now it's worse than cowardice. You'll have made their sacrifices worthless." She took a deep breath and pointed a wavering finger at him. "You need to search deep down inside yourself. We need a leader right now. We need a captain. Whatever flicker of your father still lives in there, you need to find it and you need to listen to it. I don't care if this is our final flight. I want to die being led by my Captain."

Jak stared at her, through the haze of alcohol something stirred within him. And just like that he had it. A plan. Perhaps. At the very least, a course of action. And in action he would find salvation.

"You're right, Ms Al Dessi. You're absolutely right."

She looked surprised, but she quickly rallied, still angry enough to spit. "I know I am. And if you can't be the Captain we need, I am more than happy to do as your father would and throw you out the airlock," but Jak was already grabbing a clean jacket from the hook and making to leave. Curiosity won out over fury in Ravenna. "Where are you going? What are you going to do?" She asked.

"What you said. You were right. I need to _listen_."

* * *

He jogged from his great cabin, trying to sweat out the alcohol, but he was already feeling sobered by the punch and the renewed hope. Still rubbing the rapidly swelling bruise on his jaw, Jak took the elevator alone to the upper cathedral spire of the command deck. It was in this quiet, holy space that the Astropathic choir were housed, separated from the community of sailors who both loved and despised them. Loved them, because the psychic voice of the choir was a sailor's one true lifeline, their connection to the greater Imperium, and the line through which the ship received its news, orders, stories from home, and reminders that the Empire still endured somewhere out there in the darkness beyond the walls of their vessel. Despised them because, despite their vital role, the Astropaths were still mutants, the hated other, to be feared and reviled in equal measure. Sailors were better than most at living alongside mutants, but few felt easy in the company of Astropaths, and as such, the choir typically kept to themselves, seconded in the peaceful quiet of their personal deck.

There were six Astropaths serving beneath the Astropath Transcendent, Radhati Halksis, plus a further three who had been rescued from the _Portentia_ shortly before that ship's demise. Jak had rarely spoken to any of them, and he had never set foot on their deck before. But he came here now to speak to Radhati on the Astropath's own turf. He took his time walking to Halksis' quarters, partly because he wasn't sure of the way, but mostly so that he had more time to sober up. He hadn't drunk nearly a third as much as Borjean but he still felt horrifically unsteady on his feet, planting his boots as carefully as a cadet on his first warp voyage when he walked.

Two Astropaths, hooded women with sightless milk white eyes, bobbed respectful bows as Jak passed them, but they did not say a word. A servo skull, dusty from disuse, darted from the nearest altar and offered him directions. Jak instructed it to take him to Radhati's cabin, and to signal ahead that the Captain wanted to meet. As he followed the floating skull, he caught a glimpse of the wide, sparse, circular room (also named the Astropathic choir) from which the ship's psykers did their work, amplifying their voices in psychic song to transmit messages across the great vastness of the Imperium.

Radhati Halksis had the largest set of quarters in the choir, which was his right as the Astropath Transcendent, though it was still barely larger than a lieutenant's quarters. He seemed to have favoured little in the way of decorations or personal furniture. A fold-out desk had been bolted to the floor, with a stool on either side. A finely carved wooden chair sat next to the cot. On the cot-side recess there was a fine porcelain tea seat, painted with delicate agrarian scenes in the style of Radhati's homeworld, a bustling, verdant agri-world.

When Jak entered, the elderly psyker was seated on the chair, reading from the _Oneirocritica,_ the book of visions. He unfolded himself to his full height, having to stoop beneath the low upper deck, and bowed to his Lord-Captain.

"You honour me with your presence in my quarters, my Lord. May I offer you a refreshment and seat?"

"Yes," Jak said, feeling slightly uncomfortable for reasons he could not put a finger on. "Thank you." He dropped onto the stool gratefully. Between the tail end effects of the warp storm, the copious amounts of alcohol he had imbibed and the presence of so many psykers he was feeling distinctly unstable.

The Astropath Transcendent went through his tea ceremony with slow, elegant movements, taking time and care with each step. Jak sat in silence, watching. As a man who had been born aboard ship and served with countless Astropaths he was somewhat inured to the almost alien grace of Radhati, the inner strangeness that seemed to radiate from the Astropath, but he did not think he would ever be comfortable with the cavernous black holes where the man's eyes had once been. _Burned away by the sight of the God-Emperor in his full majesty_. That was what the rumours said about them.

"How have your dreams been?" Jak asked. His mother had once taught him that this was a polite way to greet an Astropath. Radhati gave a gentle smile at the question, but did not look up from pouring the tea. "As well as can be expected, thank you my Lord. The Immaterium always brings one closer to one's nightmares, and a warp storm throws up an overwhelming array of sensations, but my dreams have been mild compared to most. I fear that I am losing my sensitivity in my old age, but this has its advantages. Poor young Merius screams every night, and not just for his friends lost on the _Portentia_."

Perhaps it was the dreams that made people so uncomfortable with Astropaths. Their unfathomable connection the God-Emperor blessed them not only with the power to sing through the Immaterium, but to catch glimpse of the future in it as well. An Astropath could read your mind or tell you your fortune, though they rarely did either with great accuracy and few could be relied on to give a straight answer. Jak did not put much stock in fortune telling that couldn't be used to get the drop on an enemy fleet, or predict when to fire the broadside cannons. But what they could be relied on for was to perfectly and precisely direct and locate messages over unimaginable distances through the chaos of the Immaterium.

"Mr Halksis, I have a request for you. I will not mince words. The _Yolenna Symphony_ is drifting aimlessly, waiting for the day when the Warp chooses to spit us out. I refuse to wait and be another lost vessel foundering in this foul ocean. We need a path back to the real."

Very calmly, Radhati finished pouring, and carefully slid a teacup across to Jak. Only then did he look up to his captain, fixing him with that dark, visionless gaze.

"My Lord, I had a premonition that you would ask something of me that I could not give, and that the conversation would grieve us both greatly. I see now why. I must disappoint you. We are not Navigators. The Holy Light of the Astronomicom sings to us, but it does not lay our path as it does the Navigator's. I could no better tell you where to steer your ship than I could tell you the colour of your eyes. My vision does not work that way."

"But you must have some sense of direction. I had never thought to ask before, but it occurs to me that you must have a notion of space in your minds, or you would never be able to direct you psychic missives."

The old man hesitated, his teacup held in mid-air. "Yes," he admitted. "You are not wrong per se. But that is not a sense by which I could guide a ship. I would not be able to see the winds of the Immaterium or the shoals of unreality. I would not be able to steer the ship safely in any way. I could relay a distress call but not give any information about where to find us."

"I was not thinking of a distress call. A direction is all we need. My helmsman will do the steering, and our prayers to the God-Emperor will suffice for safety. All I need is a heading, Mr Halksis."

The Astropath gently placed his teacup back down. His hand was shaking, and the porcelain clattered at it touched the table. "My Lord, I do not know what to tell you. I have no beacon that I can guide you towards."

"But if you listened, you might find something? Some glimpse of humanity out there that we could steer towards."

"Yes," the Astropath said. His face was becoming drawn and Jak could tell that if he had been a lighter skinned man Radhati would have been be pale with fear. "We might find something."

"A heading is all I need," Jak persisted. "The slightest glimmer of human minds to steer the ship towards."

"My Lord," Radhati was shaking his head now, "You do not understand what you are asking. It is not a simple thing, to cast our minds out into the Immaterium in this way." His voice caught and trailed off, his eyes focused on something outside the room.

"It is too chaotic for you? Too noisy?"

"No," the Astropath drew a shuddering breath. "It is exactly the opposite. To a Navigator the Immaterium may seem like a raging ocean but for me… for me it is like I am in a dark cave. A vast cavern of silence, so pitch black that I could not even see my hand if I waved it in front of my face. And in the darkness I listen, for the voices of humanity, for a planet or a ship. I can hear them in the silence, but so far away I do not know exactly where they come from. They are like a wisp of a breeze that has whistled into the darkness, and I must search for the opening that they came in through." He touched a long, slender finger to the rim of the teacup. "But that is not the only sound I hear."

Jak nodded, although his Astropath could not see him. He listened silently, giving the Astropath time to gather his thoughts and continue. When he did, his voice seemed to come from a distance, as if he truly was in another place, describing what he could see.

"Something else lurks in the cave. I cannot see it, but I know it is there and I know that it knows I am there also. It hears me moving in the dark. The longer I search for the opening, the closer it will come to finding me. And when it finds me, it will devour me, from the inside out. Its claws will rend my soul and the monster will wear my corpse as a suit."

The Astropath took one more deep breath and his sightless eyes, black as the void, looked up at his captain. "Perhaps you will not even notice that it has happened. The beast will wear my body and convince you that I still live."

Jak stared at his Astropath for a very long time. Radhati Halksis was not an imposing man. Like most psykers he was thin and gnarled, the potency of his powers seeming to eat at him from the inside. Decades of staring into the warp had left him a shadow of a man. But something in him had been inviolable enough to survive the horrific techno-arcane rituals that bound his soul to the Emperor of Mankind's. There was a strength there that Jak would never know.

"I understand the danger of what I am asking. And I don't even know if it can work. But it is our only way out of the Warp, Mr Halksis. And it is an order."

The Astropath began to weep, thick black tears from eyes that could never again see. Slow, wordless sobs wracked his whole body. But he did not refuse.


	17. Part 2- Chapter 15

**Chapter 11**

Having accepted his captain's order, Radhati Halksis lay on a stone slab in the centre of the ship's Choir. Around him, the nine Astropaths Banausic were arrayed in a rough circle, sitting with their eyes closed and chanting, in monophonic unison, the song that would insinuate through the crevices of the ship's Gellar Field and into the Warp beyond. As they moaned their paean to the Immaterium, their choirmaster thrashed and cried out. Then, finally, he went still. Somehow that was worse.

Jak waited anxiously at the side of the room, huddled in his greatcoat. The air was frigid in the Astropathic Choir, made worse by the psychic chill that clung to the skin, but Jak bore it out, with Borjean at his side. For seventeen hours they watched and waited as Radhati Halksis visibly aged in front of them.

When his assistant astropaths could continue no longer, Radhati was woken from his grim reverie. He was frail and shaking, his skin seemed to have loosened so that it hung in papery folds from his bones, the Astropath Transcendent was assisted to stand. Jak strode forward eagerly to meet him but Radhati shook his head, a tiny, muted gesture.

"I have found nothing, my Lord."

"Rest for a couple of hours," Jak said, not unkindly. "Then we'll start again."

Jak remained in the room for the second attempt. The astropaths lasted only thirteen hours this time, and at the end Radhati could not be woken. He had slipped into a coma. Jak almost gave into despair at that point, until he heard Radhati's voice, not from the man's lip, but as a psychic whisper at the edge of his thoughts.

 _-I cannot find my body-_ the voice moaned, - _My Lord, I cannot find the way back to my body-_

 _-Can you hear me?-_ Jak thought the words as clearly as he could. – _I need you to keep searching. Can you keep searching?-_

The psychic wail that met Jak's request drove him to his knees, the blood streaming from his nose and ears. It was the only reply he received.

After another five hours of sleep, Jak ordered the astropaths to begin again, to re-open the channel by which Radhati might guide them home. To their eternal credit, not one of them refused. Each understood what was being asked of them, and such was their devotion to their duties and to their captain, the chosen representative of the God-Emperor, that they did not waver. Their resonant chorus continued for over twenty hours this time. And then, as Jak could see the choir coming to the edge of collapse Radhati's psychic voice came through the ether again.

 _-I hear it. I hear her! A voice in the darkness. Can you hear? –_

The question seemed to echo in Jak's skull. _Can you hear, hear, hear, hear._ From the grimace and shake of Borjean's head, he was not the only one to hear it so. "Can you fix us on it?" Jak called out to the air around him, as if Radhati might be a ghost somewhere in the room with them. _"_ Can you fix us on the signal?"

"What is it?" Borjean muttered. "How do we know its human?"

 _-It is human. Beautiful, fragile, desperate humanity-_

"We need to get a fix on it," Jak ordered the astropaths to continue and again they did not falter. As they did their work bolstering Radhati's voice, the Warp played havoc with their minds and bodies. Jak called up Erasmus Borelyle and his chirugeons to assist but there was little that the Chief Chirugeon could do except watch and wonder at the terrible mysteries of the spirit's connection to the flesh. One of the astropaths fell to the ground shrieking, his body thrashing so violently that he snapped his own spine. Another drowned in blood that welled up in great torrents from his lungs, pink and frothing. A third simply slipped away, dying quietly with a smile on her face.

One by one the Astropaths Banausic died. They had been exposed too long, with too little protection from the dreadful power of the Immaterium.

And then, slowly, with Chief Chirugeon Borelyle at his side, the last of the astropaths, Radhati Halksis, roused from his slumber. Tears ran down his face when he heard of the death of his choir, but his face shone with a renewed vigor, flushed golden with success and determination.

"I have it, my Lord. I have your beacon. I will guide Maxillus to it."

* * *

With renewed energy, the bridge bustled with activity as the ship set a course for Radhati's mysterious psychic beacon. "Her," was all the description that Astropath Transcendent gave of it, but it was enough for Jak that they had a heading. Radhati took Seeros' seat at the Navigator's throne, Maxillus dutifully turned the ship's wheel and the _Yolenna Symphony_ wore towards the flickering candle of hope amidst the raging torrent of the warp.

Despite the storm having receded, there was still plenty of threat to be found in a blind run through the Immaterium. They were buffeted by psychic squalls that made travelling the ship's passageways difficult and dangerous. Bulkheads would seem to stretch and distort around you and the decking would slip away beneath you. Thousands were injured in minor accidents, whilst hundreds more died from falls.

The ship's priests, both Ministorum and Omnissian, provided what psychic ballast they could, reinforcing the Gellar fields with their sheer devotion to the God-Emperor and the Machine God. Still, madness afflicted every deck, and where it festered or concentrated, cults, riots and the occasional bouts of cannibalism broke out. Garian Sykarin's armsmen had their work cut out for them controlling the warp-mad sailors. The Ship's Confessor himself went among the worst of the chaos afflicted, giving them the Emperor's peace with his holy flamer, whilst the Infernus Master followed him anxiously, putting out the fires before they could spread too far.

There was endless work to be done to keep the crew together and focused on their duty. That was why it was so strange that, on the second day after Radhati had spotted the beacon, Sykarin requested to meet with Jak, alone, finding time to meet him in his great cabin. Without a word, he unfurled a handwritten note, the writing crabbed and shaky, and placed it on the desk before his Captain.

 _I, Rollyk No-Koll, once a proud son and honourable servant, confess my guilt, before my God and Emperor,_ the note read. _I killed the Lord-Captain Oberon Velasquez. I cannot hide my crime any longer. May the Emperor forgive me for the horrors I have brought upon this ship._

Jak stared at Sykarin, speechless.

"We finally forced our way into No Koll's room. He killed himself with his own quill, I won't go into the details. That note was with his body.

Jak turned the note over in his hands, as if it had more it would reveal to him. It raised more questions than it answered. It explained nothing. He found himself infuriated by it, by the notion that the fussy little Master of the Purse could have assassinated a man as great as his father.

"Do you think he really did it?" He finally asked Sykarin. His Master at Arms did not speak for a time. He was looking even worse than the last time Jak had spoken with him, fatigue and the warp presumably combining to give him the likeness of a living skeleton. "A man leaves a suicide note in a warp storm," Jak ventured, persisting, "I have every reason to question his state of mind."

Finally his former mentor spoke, gently putting a hand down to take the note from Jak's fingers and press it to the table.

"I don't know if I believe it," he said. "But I don't know that I need to. What matters is if it is enough for you. You have the evidence you need now to satisfy your family that you weren't your father's killer. Is that enough for you?"

* * *

The auspex officer's blood left dark marks across the deck as he was dragged away, still yowling, by two of the bridge's armsmen. Maternin tried to ignore his cries, and focus her attention on the screen in front of her. In the warp, the machine spirits were troubled and troublesome, glitches in the cogitation systems leaving everyone on edge. Those who could not themselves resist the insistent whisper of madness succumbed and were beaten down and put in the brig until it was determined whether they could be restored to their senses. The bridge crew were exhausted and frightened. Although the captain had declared that he had a way out of the Warp, everyone knew that their chances of survival without a Navigator were impossibly small.

The tech priests seemed to fare better than most in these situations. The Keeper of the Bridge Altar walked amongst them, crooning bursts of soothing binary and blessed code that eased the minds of the Mechanicus crew members. This was one of the few times when binary was allowed on the bridge and it blended with the low, ceaseless singing of the war-choir's hymns to the God-Emperor. Neither gave Maternin much comfort. She remained focused on her station and her work.

Her eyes were artificial, nevertheless their instincts were very much human, and she blinked in surprise as she looked down at her screen. A display that should have been showing an array of mathematical equations had gone completely dark, except for a single line of writing in glowing green.

 _If he knew what you had done, you would already be dead._

Maternin blinked twice more, but the writing did not dissipate. She punched a handful of buttons, trying to clear the screen, but it had no effect. She glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed the sudden change at her station, but no one was paying her any attention.

"So," she murmured. "This is what madness feels like." No one paid this any attention either; she was far from the only one to be talking to herself in the Warp. She looked back down at the screen.

 _Kill before you are killed._

Maternin was no killer. She had learned that in the battle against the Eldar. The heat of battle was not for her, nor the thrill of danger. When all this was over, she would return to her homeworld, and live a quiet, peaceful life amongst the Genitari, never again lifting her hand against another. No matter what some warp-madness hallucination tried to tell her.

Her station was not essential at this point in the journey and she punched buttons half-heartedly, ignoring the goading, violent messages of her display screen, until the klaxons called to signal the end of the watch. The tech priests slouched off as their replacements arrived, moving as a group back to the Enginarium.

Although it was forbidden during Warp travel to move about the ship alone, Maternin often found herself abandoned by her companions at the change of the watch. Even after all that had passed, and the acceptance she had found amongst the ship's armsmen, her own people remained scornful of her and took every opportunity to try to lose her. Maternin, who had memorised every twist and turn of this ship class as a child, always found her own way back.

Something felt different this time, though. As she walked alone down dark passageways, drawing closer to the Enginarium, there was a sense of menace in the air. Her shoulder blades itched, the ghosts of her mechadendrites aching where they had been cut away from her.

Something was stalking her, she realised. Something in the darkness. She spun around. And there was her mother.

The face was unmistakable; so perfect that it was almost inhuman. The captain of the __Vonaznaniya-17.8_ _ had used rejuvenant treatment and genetic sculpting to make her face a monument to the golden ratio, perfect in its proportions. It had not been vanity, but a testament to the Machine God's presence in even the human form. But to Maternin, all that matter was that her mother was alive. Maternin stared at her in wonderment, struggling to comprehend what was happened.

She had heard her die. Had been told by the chirugeons of the _Yolenna Symphony_ that she was the only survivor of the Eldar attack.

"You're dead." She had heard her die. Had heard her screams.

Her mother's perfect face twisted into a sneer. "Is that what you thought, _innovator_?"

Maternin reeled back. Those weren't her mother's words. That wasn't how she spoke. Maternin felt sick, dizzy. Her hand went to the bulkhead, trying to steady herself.

Her mother advanced.

"Did you think I had forgotten about you? Decided to leave you alone?"

Maternin found herself unable to speak. Her chest felt as if a great weight was being pressed against it, driving the breath of her lungs, murdering the words she wanted to say in her throat. This was her mother. The mother who'd loved her. The mother who she had thought was dead.

"You died," she said again, barely a whisper. "The Eldar killed you."

"Is that what you hoped? Ha! No, you little fool. I was gone for a time but now I've come back for you."

An electro-flail came sparking to life in her hands. "They tore me down you see. Blamed me for your little discovery. It should never have been found they said. How was I to know? But they blamed me and they took everything from me. You did this. You ruined me."

"No!" Maternin forced herself to her feet. "I didn't mean to. I was only doing as you ordered me to, as we had all agreed to. I only ever wanted to serve the Omnissiah through my work. Mother! Please!"

Her mother paused, head cocked to the side, an expression of repulsed confusion on her face. "Mother? Just who do you think I am innovator?"

The passageway was spinning around Maternin. None of this made any sense to her. And in that, she realised, lay her answer. This was not a true event, but another auditory and visual hallucination. Visions from the Immaterium, clouding her senses. She drew herself up with whatever scraps of confidence hadn't been snatched away at seeing her mother alive again.

"You're a ghost!" She accused with shaking finger, stepping towards the apparition. "You aren't real."

"Aren't I?" Her mother laughed, and her hand lashed out. The flail caught Maternin across the face, sparking with an angry staccato growl as hundreds of volts of electricity flooded her body. She felt her muscles seize, collapsed helplessly to the deck.

Her mother loomed over her, menace and contempt contorting her beautiful face.

Maternin frantically tried to drag herself away from the attack, hunched up against the bulkhead. And again, it was the cool, cogitating part of her mind that saved her. The part that wasn't bewildered and afraid and so desperate for her mother to truly be alive. The part that recalled the small sidecannon that Borjean had insisted she keep on her, even though it was against all ship protocol. Borjean knew, of course, how few friends Maternin had in the Enginarium.

As her mother raised her arm to bring down the flail again, Maternin slipped her hand around the gun and brought it up. She fired once, screaming out as she did. Her mother doubled over, stumbling backwards. Maternin fired again, pushing herself forward. Gutshot, her mother tripped and fell onto her back.

It was then that the spell seemed to dissipate. Maternin looked again at the dying woman in hemo-lubricant soaked robes, not a hallucination anymore, but a real person, of flesh, blood and metal.

Timmon. Not her mother. Timmon the overseer. Maternin cried, relief and horror combining to overwhelm her.

Sobbing, exhausted, she slumped against the bulkhead next to the corpse of the vicious Lachrimallus. She could only pray that Jak Velasquez would drag them out of this living hell soon.

* * *

Seven days after Radhati had found his beacon, the _Yolenna Symphony_ left the Warp. Reality contorted impossibly, spilling out ethereal light from the tortured rent that spat the _Yolenna Symphony_ one more into the void.

After so long in the Warp, returning to reality was like being thrown into a bath of ice water. Jak gasped with the sudden shock of it, but there was little time for recovery. Across the bridge, his crew went to work frantically trying to ascertain their position. "Fix position and chronometer," he called out, but his etherics officers were already at work.

Their sojourn in the Warp would have thrown them thousands of light years off course, but they would have no way of knowing how far or in which direction until they could begin identifying stars. The further they were from known space, the longer the process would take. Meanwhile, they were vulnerable, with no shields and temporarily blind to possible dangers in the immediate void-space.

But still, they were alive. They had made it.

He rose from his throne, bone weary. The first person to turn to him was Al Dessi. The smile on her face was the most genuine Jak had seen since the death of her father. She held a hand out to him. "Well done, Sir. Very well done." He grasped her hand, his body flooding with relief. He needed to sleep. Then he needed a shower, preferably one that went for hours, with beautiful women to help him watch the taint of the Warp off him. He was a privateer captain, surely that could be arranged?

"Indeed," Dhukov said, rising, interrupting that hopeful thought. "I had thought recent actions had doomed the ship. It appears she may still be saved." It was the closest thing to a compliment he was going to receive from the Chief Enginseer, Jak knew. He nodded in acceptance of the Archmagos' words.

"Magos Ikay," Jak called out. With Minas Trigal dead, Jak had temporarily appointed the Magos Etheria in charge of the sensor officers, a choice that seemed to have added to Dhukov's sudden glimmers of approval. "Magos!" Jak snapped again when the hunched tech priest did not look up from his calculations. "Do we have a position, yet?"

"Not a precise one, Sir." The priest said. "Early radiation and spectral analyses indicate that we are, colloquially speaking, off the map. Outside of charted space and likely on the far western rim, amongst the Halo Stars."

That brought the mood down again. Uncharted territory and still uncertain about what had drawn them here. "Focus on local system analyses. I want to know what the shape of the darkness looks like and what threats we're facing."

He turned to Radhati, who was sitting in the throne that had once been the privilege of the ship's Navigator. It seemed appropriate, given that it was Radhati's psychic north star that had led them out of the Warp. "Mr Halksis, do you still sense whatever it was you sensed in the Immaterium?"

The Astropath Transcendent was a shadow of his former self, the last few days chasing a distant call across the warp seeming to have eaten away at him from the inside. He was pressed back against his seat, fingers fluttering weakly. "It's still out there. She's so close. She needs us to save her." He gave a high pitched scream, and crumpled in on himself. Al Dessi rushed to his side.

"Damn it, get a chirugeon!" Jak called out.

"Sir!" Came a voice from the bridge below. "A ship!"

"A ship? Here?"

They had come out of the warp right on top of it. "She's at All Stop, Sir. We barely registered her. All major systems appear to be powered down, but the energy signal is clearly Imperial."

All Stop was unusual, as close as a ship could come to being stationary, anchored to the relic radiation of the void and conserving its energy almost completely. A ship could sit for millennia untouched at All Stop if it was left undisturbed. This one replied to no vox or noospheric signalling, but it had to have been where the psychic signal had emanated from.

"Bring us in close, helm. Let's take an eyeball at her."

Maneuvering thrusters fired across the Yolenna and she was gingerly brought in alongside the ship. Jak moved to the bow to observe the mystery vessel with his own eyes.

It was as majestic a ship as Jak had ever seen. Gold and copper cladding shone across the hull of an ancient vessel, clearly from the earliest days of the Imperium. Stark geometric patterns repeated across the hull, with arched portholes broken up by embossed spandrels. The superstructure was made of towering ziggurats, crenelated in black, housing the command decks and sensory spires. The bow of the ship was a convex bulb sweeping down to her unarmoured prow, copper plating gleaming as it caught the light of a distant sun. Impeccably housed lanced batteries were arrayed in two rows of broadsides, but this was no warship. It was a star galleon, perhaps one of the ancient treasure galleons of the Empire at the height of its power.

An immense statue of the Emperor, as large as any Jak had ever seen stood like a colossus ahead of the ziggurats. In pediments across the port and starboard side, painted stone reliefs displayed images from the Great Crusade. They were far removed from the traditional religious iconography of the Imperial Navy; bold geometrics forms merged with gentle, flowing lines to create scenes that were colourful and radiating optimism, showing heroism and grace in every relief. Many of them displayed heroic deeds of the Astartes Primarchs… all the Primarchs, Jak realised with a shock. This ship predated the Heresy.

Al Dessi, Dhukov and several the senior command cadre stood at the vista-glass alongside him. Only Stieg could find words for the moment.

"Well _bugger_ me," he breathed.

As the Yolenna slowly turned to come in alongside of the ship, Jak made out a name marked out in gold plating across her stern. _Stallion of the Empire._ He found himself mouthing the words.

"Sir?" He was so taken up with their unexpected discovery that he didn't hear the junior officer's voice. "Captain Velasquez? We're detecting a new energy signal."

"Energy signal?" He asked, and the junior officer shrugged in confusion, but one of the other sensor officers was quicker on the uptake. "Sir, her lance batteries are coming online!"

Jak started running back to his throne, shouting orders as he passed.

"Take evasive actions. Hail the ship! We're friends! Dammit, hail that ship!"

It was too late. The ancient galleon fired a single shot, a lance beam unlike any Jak had ever seen before on an Imperial vessel, needle thin and appallingly precise. It cut through the Yolenna's thruster housing like a surgical scalpel. The ship gave a mournful groan and shuddered horribly as the main thrusters were torn away from the ship. And then silence, an almost complete silence.

Maxillus gave a confused look at his wheel for a moment, slowly taking his hands away. When he turned to Jak, his face betrayed a confusion and pain that he had not showed during the entirety of their desperate flight through the Warp.

"Sir... we're dead in space."

* * *

Hours later, Jak stood in the observatory, still marveling at the _Stallion of the Empire_. It had only ever fired the one shot, perfectly destroying the ship's ability to fly away, but doing nothing beyond that.

Jak could sense Al Dessi behind him. He wanted to ignore her, to keep marveling at the hauntingly beautiful galleon. It had never fired a second shot. They were hanging in dead in space, without shields, the perfect target for destruction, but it never fired a second shot.

With a sigh he tore himself away from the pane and turned to his first officer.

"What do you have for me Ms Al Dessi?"

"The Chief Enginseer has given his report," she passed over a data slate. "The Enginarium casualties are somewhere between one and three thousand but it will be hours before the rescue crews are finished looking for survivors so that we can confirm those lost. The rear thrusters are beyond repair. The port and starboard maneuvering burners are the only thrust we have left."

Jak gave a quick glance at the data slate, but he could not turn away from the _Stallion of the Empire_ for long. "Something on that ship called to us. Something fired upon us. If this was a trap, why is it only half sprung?"

Ravenna Al Dessi had no answer for her captain. She stood at attention and provided the only information that she did have. "The Keeper of the Librarium can find no record of the _Stallion of the Empire_ , but based on the class and markings, she's identified it as one of the original Rogue Trader vessels, a treasure galleon that would have been sent out to the far edges of the galaxy by the God-Emperor himself."

"Do we know where we are?" Jak asked, sharply, as if he hadn't even heard.

She frowned. "No, Sir. Our Navis Prima contains no charts of this section of space, and warp interference is preventing us from accurately analysing the current readings to make any kind of estimation of our position. That will clear over the next few days, but we're far away from any known Imperial systems."

Jak smiled, shaking his head. "So then just so I'm clear: we have no idea where we are in space, which doesn't matter anyway because we have no Navigator to guide us home, and even if we did our engines are crippled. And we've been lured in and attacked by a mysterious treasure galleon that predates the Heresy, responds to no hail and could finish us off anytime it chooses, yet for some unknown reason, has decided not to."

"I believe that would be an adequate summary, yes Sir."

He laughed and turned back to the window. Ravenna took a step towards him.

"Sir, what do you intend to do?"

Jak couldn't take his eyes off the _Stallion of the Empire_.

"Well for starters Ms Al Dessi, I'm going to take that bloody ship."

* * *

Mustek Velasquez awoke into darkness with a gasp that wracked his whole body. The first breath he had taken unassisted in weeks filled his lungs with a dizzying rush of concentrated oxygen from the life support modules. Panting and panicked he twisted and thrashed in the confinement of the small chamber.

Slowly, as he calmed, he began to recognise his surroundings. A life support vault. His naked body felt raw, his skin numb and tingling. It was too dark to see, but he could tell that he had been injured. Then, with sudden force, his memories returned. He gasped and thrashed again. The flight deck!

Drawing long, slow, steadying breaths Mustek forced himself to calm. As the initial panic of consciousness wore off he began to make sense of his situation; an explosion on the flight deck must have injured him, he had been placed into a life support vault until he healed and was now in a fit state to be awoken. But where was the chirugeon? Why wasn't the vault being opened?

He blinked as a lumen flared outside, the light shining green through the tinted glass of the vault. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and for the first time caught a glimpse of the shiny, pink skin on his hand. New skin. He must have been horrifically burned.

A clanking noise from somewhere around his waist caused Mustek to contort himself, trying to see what was happening. He felt something touch his thigh, a small, cold sensation. Had something been dropped into the vault? There must be some type of air-sealed compartment for inserting surgical equipment without venting the super-oxygenated chamber.

With a whirr, remote-operated manipulators began to move at the side of the chamber. Mustek, twisting as he tried to crane up and see what was happening around his thighs, struggled to make out the movements. In the dim light he saw the manipulators pick up the object that had been dropped into the chamber. Small, rectangular, chrome. It took him a moment to understand what it was.

"No!" The manipulators fumbled with the object, but on the second attempt the mechanical hands were able to open it. A hand-lighter, the fuel nozzle gleaming in the veridian light that shone through the small view-pane above Mustek's head. Mustek scrambled frantically, cringing away from the thing in helpless panic. "No! Stop!" He looked up through the view-pane. A face could be seen now, blurred and distorted through the green plas-glass. Mustek struggled to make out the features, until the reason for their familiarity dawned on him.

"You?" He said, his voice sounded thick and slurred to his own ears. And then suddenly, as he heard the flick of the hand-light flaring into life, his voice turned from confusion to terror. "Stop! R-" In the oxygenated chamber of the life support sarcophagus, the air itself burned. The assassin's name died on his lips, the last words of Mustek Velasquez left unspoken as fire consumed his world.

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 **End of Part 2**

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 **Next: Part 3- The Hellship**

* * *

 **Who is the assassin stalking members of the Velasquez family? What mysteries await the intrepid crew of the _Yolenna Symphony_ aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_? How will Jak lead his people back home to Imperial Space? What fate befell the Lysandrian Crusade and what is the dark secret behind the Lysander System's rapid growth? All these questions will be answered when the Very Devil of the Stars continues…**

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 _Author's Note 20/05/2017: And that's the end of Part 2! Firstly, thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed the story so far. It's been a blast to write. For those calculating their time investment, I'd estimate that we're a little under two thirds through. Parts 3 and 4 are unlikely to be as long as Part 2, but definitely longer than Part 1. Unfortunately, however, the story is going to be going on hiatus before Part 3 starts coming out. Other things are going to need to take priority for a little while, and I would prefer to put the story on hiatus until I can go back to a twice monthly update schedule rather than release chapters haphazardly. There are a couple of short stories that are pretty much written and will probably drop in the meantime time, but the main story will return in August. Look forward to seeing you all again then!_


	18. Bonus Chapter- The Crew of a Ship

_Authors Note: I need to make very clear at the outset that this is not Part 3 of the continuing story. Part 3 is still on track to begin being published in August. But it has been too long without an update (I'll speak for no one reading but I, at least, am missing writing it) and a couple of people have asked me about how the ships are crewed in my story. Therefore, as a quick bonus chapter and a reminder that I haven't forgotten Jak and Maternin, what follows is a brief outline of the crew of the _ Yolenna Symphony _._

 _There is no one source and certainly no science behind my thoughts on the crew of a 40K ship. I've relied on a mixture of the Rogue Trader RPG source book, some online forums, a scant few brief mentions in Black Library fictions, the traditions and practices of the Royal Navy in the 19_ _th_ _and 20_ _th_ _centuries and my own imagination, to one degree or another._

 _It is completely unnecessary to read this chapter in order to keep up with the story, so don't feel obliged to do so if fictional crew manifests aren't your cup of tea. Think of it as an appendix; everyone knows whether or not they're the type of person who reads the appendix of a fiction novel._

 _For those to whom continuity is King, I would say that this 'bonus chapter' takes place sometime between Parts 1 or 2 in the voyage from the Starveling system, following Oberon Velasquez's death._

 _Finally, and I hope it's not inappropriate to mention this here, if anyone is interested in further adventures of Jak Velasquez and Maternin Shyendi, I have just published the first part of_ Dinner with the Inquisition _, a short story featuring the two of them at a later stage in their careers. It will be coming out in weekly installments over the next five weeks._

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Jak rubbed the sleep from his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. Unconsciously, he tugged it into a ponytail, a tic from his childhood. He has been ship's captain for only a scant few days and already he was being driven to exhaustion. Who knew, who could have predicted, that the management of his vast metal kingdom would require getting his head around such an enormous amount of paperwork?

It was piled on the desk in front of him in slack mounds, a motley collection of millennia old scrolls, glowing dataslates, bobbing 3D hololiths and great, leather bound books. The Warp itself had never contained such a chaotic collection of obscurities and ephemera.

Another was dropped in front of him, a great tome, bound in chains but unlocked and clanking open onto his desk. It had spilled out of the hands of the Keeper of the Purse who gave a nervous start as he dropped it, one eye twitching spasmodically.

"What's this one?" Jak barked, and the Keeper gestured helplessly. "It's the Ship's List my Lord. Every crew member aboard has their name or mark in there."

Jak fixed the book with an appraising glare. Well, here was a thing.

The _Yolenna Symphony_ was a vast cathedral of war. Over sixty thousand souls lived and worked aboard her, for a given definition of work of course, and a given definition of life for that matter. This book contained them all. The dead were there, their names carefully crossed through in red ink, with a brief statement regarding the date and manner of their death. The newly delivered were recorded in there too, for a few hundred void-born children began their lives on every voyage; families were not discouraged on board the great ships of the Imperium, in fact many vessels contained whole clans of specialists, gunners or ship wrights usually, generation after generation living and serving together. No one had more intimate knowledge of the ship's workings, nor more personal reason to protect her.

The book also outlined the structure of the ship's crewing, from the wardroom to the Enginarium, from the sacred deck of the Navigator's Spire to the underdecks where the Twistcatcher and his minions plied their trade. No two ships in the Imperium were alike in this regard; so diverse were the cultures of the various Battlefleets and so disparate the requirements of individual ships that a man could serve on a hundred ships and never see two crewed in exactly the same way.

"Leave me" Jak said, dismissing the Keeper of the Purse. The nervous savant made his way out of the great cabin, leaving Jak alone with the Ship's List. He touched it with almost talismanic regard. The ship, the true living soul of the ship, resided in its crew and that crew resided here in the Ship's List.

It was a fine crew. His late father, Oberon Velasquez, had attracted some of the best sailors in Calixis. Admiral Velasquez had a reputation for victory and glory, which was attractive to many sailors, and (perhaps more importantly) he had been paying pensions too. No rogue trader or merchant charter could employ sailors at a greater wage than the Navy (by Imperial law, not for lack of coin) and so it was difficult to draw good sailors away from the honour and rectitude of the service. Battlefleet Calixis had always offered high wages and inflated prize money shares to naval recruits, safe in the knowledge that the vast majority would die in the void long before they got the chance to collect. There was no pension for widows and widowers in the Navy, you got paid when the voyage was done and collected your coin in person. Eager youngsters and truculent conscripts might have their heads turned by the flash of coin, but veteran sailors, sober, level-headed men and women, would often take a smaller wage if it came with a pension, guaranteed to be paid out to any wife, sweetheart, child or granny of their choice in the likely event that they never made it home.

With his pick of the dockyards and a great many officers choosing to resign their commissions in order to follow him, Oberon had been able to structure his crew in the way he knew and loved best, along naval lines. He made only a few changes, as befitted a privateer carrying Letters of Marque- he had no lieutenants, but instead a first, second and third mate, and no midshipmen. But apart from this, he had retained all the old roles and titles that he had used as an Imperial Navy post-captain, unofficial of course, but giving the crew a certain dignity and purposefulness that Jak had no intention of disrupting.

Jak opened the book to the first page. There were only two names here- his father's, of course, on top, neatly crossed out with the cause of his death still unwritten, the investigation ongoing, and then beneath, in neat calligraphy, was written _Jakobian Marques Velasquez (Lord-Captain)._

On the second page were listed the names and titles of the wardroom, Jak's senior command cadre. This group consisted of the Masters, Keepers and Chiefs who were responsible for the daily workings of the ship.

 **THE MASTERS**

Masters were traditionally commissioned officers, and the nine who served the Yolenna Symphony had all served with Oberon in the Imperial Navy before resigning their commissions, except for the Ship's Master who had been stationed on board the ship since before she had been decommissioned.

Ravenna Al Dessi was the first mate, or Executive Officer, and held no specific duties, but was in charge of all day to day operations aboard the ship. She served a watch at the command throne, but her tasks ran far beyond this. The scope and requirements of the role were an enormous as was the strength of Al Dessi's dedication to it. She had served with Jak's father since she was a cadet, developing an almost fanatical devotion to the old man. Jak did not know how she would take to a new captain, particularly one with the cloud of suspicion over him. Even Jak had to admit, he was by far the most likely suspect in his father's killing- if he didn't know that he hadn't committed the deed he certainly would have suspect himself.

Serving in the role of second mate was the ship's Master at Arms, Garian Sykarin. His responsibilities were for the body of armsmen who made up the ships military and police force. Although a far less exalted position than that of Lord General in the Imperial Army, the Yolenna's Master at Arms commanded a force of close to 6000 armsmen, more than many generals did. Sykarin was the best leader of fighting men Jak had ever met. He needed to be. The ship's armsmen were responsible for offensive and defensive boarding actions, protection against daemonic incursion, and control of any mutinies, uprisings, or criminal unrest that might occur during the voyage. It was rare for a Master at Arms to be made a mate, but Sykarin had served with Jak's father longer than perhaps any man aboard the ship, he was no great sailor perhaps, but he knew as much about commanding a crew as any man alive.

Third mate, and Master of Ordnance, was Pak Stieg, a snarling old bastard who had never quite left behind his piratical upbringings. Stieg had entered the Imperial Navy through the strangest of paths. As a pirate chieftain, captaining a destroyer in the flotilla that had besieged Unyen III in the Scarus sector, Stieg had crossed paths with a young Oberon Velasquez. For reasons known only to himself, Stieg had betrayed his compatriots, and personally guided Oberon through the minefield that the pirates had set up, allowing Unyen to be resupplied and ultimately saving the planet. In an act of forgiveness and generosity that became legendary within Battlefleet Scarus, Oberon then offered Stieg the opportunity to redeem his wicked life, in service to the Imperial Navy. Being no fool, and seeing the sabre in Oberon's hand, Stieg quickly took this opportunity with both hands. Of course, his background would have made it impossible for Stieg to ever become a Master in Battlefleet Calixis, but he was the best gunner on the ship by far and Oberon, finally free to appoint his officers on merit, had been quick to give Stieg the post of Master of Ordnance when he had received his Letters of Marque.

The Master of Ordnance (or Master Gunner depending on the ship) was responsible for every cannon shot, lance bean, torpedo or small-craft that could be flung at an enemy ship. A single broadside from a void ship delivered more destructive power than even the greatest of the Mechanicus God Machines; sometimes Jak could still marvel at the wonder of an Empire that would give even a pirate the opportunity to direct such devastation against the enemies of the Emperor.

The Yolenna carried a Ship's Master too, an officer who stood with the ship, voyaging with it their whole lives till they knew the vessel better than they knew themselves. This was an archaic position that after thousands of years seemed to be finally fading out within Battlefleet Calixis, and many ships no longer carried them. But being new to the Yolenna, Oberon had placed a great deal of faith in her Master, the grizzled old she-wolf Jeena Beru. Beru had been with the ship her entire life, rising up from a 'tunnel rat' (the children whose role it was to squeeze into and clear out all the tightest pipes, ducts and crawlspaces) to become one of the most powerful officers on her. Her roles were broadly defined, and included void astrogration, dockings, loading and unloading and the keeping of the ship's log, but there were few aspects of shipboard operations on which her advice and insight would not be discretely sought.

Filling out the wardroom were the Masters of Vox, Etherics, Ancilia, Shipboard Defences, and Stores, reliable officers, all ex-navy. Each had his or her area of responsibility aboard the ship and all except for the Master of Stores, stood on the bridge during battle, commanding their vast staff of officers in operating the ship's communications, sensors, shield and the thousands of smaller guns that kept torpedoes and bombing craft from coming in too close.

 **THE KEEPERS**

Keepers were civilian titles, and these (typically administrative or ecclesiastical) roles were filled at the discretion of the ship's captain. A miserly captain might attempt to save his own coin by taking on all the Keepers' duties himself, but few did so with any great success. Oberon had taken on only three, to carry out the most important duties for which a certain degree of administrative expertise was required.

The Keeper of the Purse was responsible for handling all of Oberon's (and therefore the ship's) money. It was an unpopular position with the crew; the purse-keeper was always the first to be blamed when wages went missing, when goods in port became expensive, or when crew members were accidentally listed as 'dead' and suddenly not receiving their wages. Moreover, because a good purse-keeper often could make a great deal of coin in side business and minor corruption, they were always looked at with great suspicion by captain and crew alike. It was probably for this reason that Rollyk No-Koll was such a nervous, disagreeable man. Jak hadn't trusted him from the moment he'd set eyes on him, but Jak had never had much time for bankers.

The Keeper of the Librarium took responsibility for all the ship's records. This was a task for a savant of immense ability. In an Empire of a million worlds, a history of 10 000 years and enemies of infinite number, every ship needed to carry a vast encyclopaedia of information and an individual who could navigate that information, often at speed and sometime with life or death stakes. The Keeper's job was not a favoured one, but many a ship had been saved by a Librarium who had been able to identify an enemy vessel and her key weakness at just the right moment.

Finally, the Keeper of the Faith, also known as the ship's confessor, saw to the divine and devotional health of the ship. This was no small thing; an army of priests and priestesses, deacons, choirmasters, deck pastors, sacristans, catechists and exorcists ministered to every part of the ship's crew, and kept their faith up during their travel through the Warp. The spiritual fortitude of the crew was just as important to safe passage through the Immaterium as the Gellar shields, and maintaining that fortitude was the Confessor's responsibility. Possessing a certain skillset that was common to the Imperial Faith, Jak's Keeper, Father Benallen, also took responsibility, with his customary diligence and expertise, for any prisoner interrogations that the captain might require.

Rogue traders dynasties often had a great many more keepers than this of course, often coming under the authority of a High Factotum. More paranoid types for example might employ a Keeper of Whispers, whilst the more epicurean might have a Keeper of the Kitchens. Jak had even heard of one particularly lascivious merchant captain maintaining a Keeper of Whips and Chains, although he had never discovered what their daily duties specifically entailed.

 **THE CHIEFS**

Finally, amongst the wardroom officers came the ship's chiefs, warrant officers all, generally appointed by the Naval Board on Cypra Mundi through a myriad of byzantine contracts and handshake agreements with Noble Navigator Houses, Forge Worlds, Ecclesiasty and the Officio Medicae, although of course as privateer, Oberon had needed to organise all these contracts for himself. The Yolenna Symphony flew with four chiefs:

The Chief Chirugeon ran the medicae deck, taking care of the doctors, alchemists, savants and servitors who crewed the ship's hospital. Jak's Chief Chirugeon, Erasmus Borelyle, was an irascible individual, but as talented a ship's surgeon as any man alive. A genuine medical professional, when most ships only employed any enthusiastic amateur who could provide his own tools and moonlight as the ship's barber, Borelyle was well loved by the crew. Jak, in particular, had a great fondness for him, having served with him once in the Navy as a junior Lieutenant. Borelyle had started the voyage as Chief Chirugeon on board the _Siren's Wail_ , but when Jak's brother had required the ministration of a life support vault, Jak had wanted only one man supervising his care, and so both Borelyle and brother had been brought onto the _Yolenna Symphony_.

The Chief Astropath (sometime known as the Astropath Transcendent or Choir-Master Telepathica), was the ship's psychic communication specialist. Leading a small 'choir' of specially bonded psykers, Radhati Halksis sang into the Immaterium itself, through an astropathic network was by no means perfect, but it was the only way that messages could be sent across the vastness of the Empire. The astropaths were both loved and feared by the crew. Their psychic power was the sailor's one true lifeline, their connection to the greater Imperium, and the line through which the ship received all its news, orders, stories from home, and reminders that the Empire still endured somewhere out there in the darkness beyond the walls of their vessel. However, they were still mutants, and worse, psykers. Sailors were better than most at living alongside mutants, but few felt easy in the company of psykers. As such the Astropath was a respected, but often shunned, member of the wardroom, typically not leaving his personal suite unless called upon to by the captain.

The Chief Navigator (sometimes known as the Warp Guide, or _Navigator Primaris),_ held possibly the strangest and most important role aboard the ship. He alone was able to guide the ship's helmsman through the storm-struck chaos and hidden shoals of the Immaterium. Navigators came from noble mutant houses of unfathomable wealth and ancient power; the very survival of the Empire depended on their mutations and they made sure that the Empire was reminded of this at every opportunity. Each Imperial Navy warship was guaranteed by ancient contract to have a Navigator on board, but the cost for a privateer to contract the services of even a novice warp guide was exorbitant. With no close contacts to rely upon, Oberon Velasquez had appealed to House E'Al'Xandros of Calixis, a Navigator House renowned for their interest in the Halo Stars and the fringes of the Empire. The house deigned to provide him with a young scion of the family, an inexperienced, unreliable youth named Seeros who was nevertheless entrusted with navigating not one ship but several. It was one of the greatest risks Oberon had taken with the voyage, but so far it had paid off handsomely. Seeros had done everything required of him, navigating them smoothly to this, the last part of their voyage. Once again, Jak thought, his father's judgement had been sound.

Finally, came the officer who many considered the unofficial second in command, the Chief Enginseer, sometimes known as the _Enginseer Primaris_ or _Technis Majoris_. The tech priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, with their intimate knowledge of science and machinery, were essential for the operations of the ship. Whatever rank he might hold on his home forge world, for the duration of the voyage, the Chief Enginseer, Dhukov, was an Archmagos and by law and faith all tech priests on board the _Yolenna Symphony_ owed him fealty. However, within the Imperial Navy, their leader was not considered part of the hierarchy of command. Instead, for political reasons, the Chief Enginseer would be considered a trusted advisor, similar to the Chief Navigator but with a far larger staff. By custom, their advice would be sought on all major, non-military, decisions, but they would be expected to defer to the will of the captain. However, in practice the relationship between captain and Enginseer could be a contentious one, and the ship's Adeptus Mechanicus would often show loyalty to their leader rather than their captain, with the potential for chaos and mutiny if the two came to irreconcilable disagreement.

 **STANDING OFFICERS**

Turning the page of the Ship's List, Jak came to the page of standing officers, ranking a step below the senior command cadre, but still performing vital specialist roles on board the ship. These names included the ship's Bosun, Chief Shipwright, Helmsman, Coxwain, Infernus Master and the Wing Commander of her fighter and bomber contingents. Like the Ship's Master, these officers tended to 'stand' with the same ship throughout their whole career, rather than follow a particular captain as many officers would do. Jak did not know any of these men or women well, but he knew that he would need to depend on their skills. The safety and effectiveness of the _Yolenna Symphony_ relied greatly on the expertise of these officers and their teams.

 **PETTY OFFICERS**

Following the standing officers came scores of pages of petty officers. _The Yolenna Symphony_ carried thousands of lower grade officers, who did not form part of the wardroom but did perform specialist roles, including (but certainly not limited to) bridge officers, deck foremen, yeomen, arms sergeants, quartermasters, wright masters, rite masters, small-craft pilots, gun grew captains, medicae savants, librarium savants, astrogation savants, confessors, cartographers, cryptographers, carto-artifices, hydrologists, deep-void operators, atmospheric reclamators and deckhand gaffers.

 **TECH PRIESTS**

Jak came to a section of the Ship's List written both in gothic and Techna Lingua; the names, ID designations and roles of the ship's complement of tech priests.

The priests were something of an empire to themselves on board most ships, depending on their numbers. Some vessels flew with only a single Enginseer, the _Yolenna Symphony_ carried over ten thousand. Jak had heard more than one captain say a machine cult crewmember's loyalty was to the ship first, their Archmagos second and their captain a distant third. They had their own hierarchy, their own traditions and their own faith, separate from those of the Navy.

The Adeptus Mechanicus revered machinery, and no single machine, not even their holy God Machines were as vast, complex, powerful or miraculous as those great void-faring vessels that could act as homes to millions, ravage whole planets at will and survive the horrors of the Immaterium unscathed. The life blood of the Empire flowed through the ships of the Imperial fleets and their function was a holy thing to the priests of the Machine God.

Each tech priest came under the auspice of the Chief Enginseer, and, like the ship's captain, the Enginseer had a group of senior Magi, each responsible for their own sections of the ship: Ordinators, Etheria, Animus, Latheric, Biologis, Aegis, Prasidios, Immaterius and Ancilus. The Enginseer's second in command was the Omnissiac Confessor, responsible for the endless regime of wards and rituals by which the ship's machine spirits were appeased, as well as the significantly less important task of administrating the day to day living needs of the ship's tech priests.

Reading through the list of names, Jak struggled to understand the esoteric references to the specific duties of each individual tech priest, but he understood the basic breakdown of the ship's complement into rune-priests, lex-priests, trans-priests and enginseers. A number of non-Mechanicus mechwrights also reported to the various divisions of the Enginarium, although rarely were their skills given recognition by the clannish and scornful tech priests. Still their names were given a place along with all the other denizens of the Enginarium, ranked by a system that Jak knew he would never be able to decipher on his own.

 **GENERAL CREW**

Finally, Jak came to the back half of the great tome, carrying the names of the ship's general crew. Everyone from the oldest sailor to the newest baby, was listed her along with their rating. The most useless crew members, conscripts dragged up from a hive world's prisons fit only to haul on rope were rated as indentured. On some vessels indentured service was a lifelong sentence, akin to slavery, and the majority would die within months from malnutrition, accidents or various disciplinary actions, for a great many crimes on board the ship carried the death penalty. But on the _Yolenna Symphony_ a man or woman who survived their first year earned the rating of 'ordinary', and the relatively softer duties that came with it. Prove yourself over your second year and you could be rated 'able', a true voidfarer, fit to call yourself a Yolenna with pride.

There were a number of specific trades on board the ship, including the stock wranglers, bilge runners, canary clammers, bean chewers, ramjackers, holystoners, seamstressers, auspex riggers, tunnel rats, and warp monkeys, but in truth, Oberon had expected every sailor to be a jack of all trades. Every able sailor needed to know how to able to buff and scale, splice a wire, run damage control on a deck, respond to depressurisation, run a lead, tow a shell, read a sensor board, launch a shuttle, stow the cargo, fight a fire, and target a cannon. He expected everyone to be able to defend against boarders. He expected everyone to know how to respond to an emergency vent. If you couldn't learn these things then you'd be on a chain gang for the rest of your life, hauling ordnance till your body gave out.

But, Jak knew, if you were a true void-farer you learned it all. Even a steward knew how to stoke the engine spirits. Even an armsman knew how to consecrate the deck for warp translation. As long as a ship had a skeleton crew, a watch's worth of men and women, they could make their way home.

In dire circumstances, a captain might pressgang crew from 'below the waterline', the ancient underdecks that existed on most ships, unused and uninhabited except by the hidden mutant and castaway civilizations that most vessels picked up like barnacles. Any ship that had these nuisances also employed one of the most bizarre roles in the Imperial Navy, that of Twistcatcher. A senior officer who was never allowed into the wardroom (except once a year on the celebration of St Xavier's Day) and a man beloved by sailors who would spit on him if they ever met him planetside, the enigmatic mutant chieftain known only as The Groff served the _Yolenna Symphony_ as Twistcatcher, keeping the mutant population in check- and ready to serve, if circumstances ever became that dire.

The Groff's mark, suspiciously like a paw print, was not the last name in the Ship's List, however. It was followed by thirty-three more, and Jak knew there had been some debate about including these at all. Merry Servants #1 through to #33 had neatly written their names in the back of the book, the self-aware servitors of the _Yolenna Symphony_.

Every ship had servitors, of course, they were as much a part of the fixtures of the ship as ladders and cogitating banks. Cyborgs stripped of free will and identity, punished for unknown crimes against the Adeptus Mechanicus and sent to serve as auxiliary crew. Jak had even heard of some ships that were entirely crewed by servitors; and what a lonely captain that would be, he thought to himself. Servitors had a number of advantages over human crew: they were tireless, immensely strong, and would do all the really dangerous and dirty jobs that humans didn't want to do. But servitors were not preferred in the Imperial Navy, they were unimaginative golems, prone to making mistakes when their orders were not specific enough, or ignoring potential calamities because a response was not in their programmed parameters. They couldn't think for themselves, and a sailor who couldn't think for themselves was often a liability.

So, it had come as some surprise, and caused a great deal of conflict, when a handful of the lobotomised servants, unloved and disregarded, had rediscovered some semblance of their old self-awareness and identity. On the one hand, it was clearly blasphemy for these creatures to exist, on the other hand they were polite, tireless, obedient, eager to be useful and full of initiative. In the end, as with most things on board ship, utility had won out. Oberon had put them to work. Their leader, Merry Servant #13 had only one request, that they be entered as crew in the Ship's List. This had been allowed, but only at the very back of the book.

Jak closed the Ship's List with a sense of great satisfaction. His ship. His crew. Ready to sail where he led them.

There was one name left off the Ship's List of course, he realised; Jak's personal chef, the alien known as Jestross.

Xenos were forbidden aboard the ship, except as cargo. This was an ancient and immutable law, sometimes known as Canning's Law in the Calixis Sector. The dashing Captain Canning had, in the midst of a campaign where his crew had been depleted by yellow scurvy, convinced a group of orks to crew his vessel by telling them that he was taking them to Armageddon to join the great war. Miraculously, this worked, and he was able to defeat a large force of pirate raiders with the assistance of his enthusiastic orkish crew, before returning home, where the ship was promptly boarded and the ork's slaughtered. Despite having saved the system, Canning faced a court martial for his actions, where he was narrowly acquitted on the basis that his efforts to save the ship outweighed the crime of allowing xenos on board. However, he was later charged by the Inquisition for transportation of dangerous flora without a licence and the Admiralty, wanting to avoid scandal, allowed him to be quietly executed.

Well aware of this precedent, but equally of the prodigious skills Jestross possessed as a chef, Oberon had sought special dispensation to take the xenos on board from none other than the Cardinal Calixis. Over the best dinner that the Cardinal had ever eaten, he was compelled to agree that the Xenos' cooking was an expression of the divine will of the Emperor, as no barbaric alien could cook so perfectly without the Emperor's blessing. Oberon was invited to dine with the Cardinal every time he returned to Calixis, on the condition that it never be made public who the chef was.

If there was a lesson to be learned in this it was a simple one, Jak thought. Anything was possible in the vastness of the Empire. And an additional lesson perhaps- never get between a captain and his stomach.

=][=

 _So, there you have it, the crew of the Yolenna Symphony. I hope people enjoy this little chapter, and it helps to tide people over until the main story returns in August. But there's one last thing I thought I would ask. I suspect most of readers of this story know more about the 40K universe than I do. And I have a lot of questions that I've been unable to answer from the few sources that I have access to, or through browsing forums. So, I'm going to start ending each chapter with a question. If you have an answer, and can direct me to the source for it, then please feel free to pm me or leave an answer in a review. I'd like to do justice to the setting as much as I can, but I am way behind the ball as far as expertise and source materials go._

 _The question for today is: What alcoholic beverages exist in the universe and what real world booze do they stand in for? So far, the vast majority of references are to amasec, which appears to be brandy or whisky depending on the writer. Dammasine I've seen in Priests of Mars (by Graham McNeill) which was either a sparkling wine or a type of liqueur (like the damson plum liqueur from France) and Joliq, which is in the RPGs and sounds like a clear grain alcohol (e.g. vodka). But my knowledge is very limited here, and I can't even work out if the term 'wine' exists in the setting. So, what's a bar cart look like in the grim, dark future of the 41_ _st_ _millennium?_


	19. Part 3- Interlude

**Part 3**

 **The Hell Ship**

His bare feet drummed across the deck. His heart pounded in his chest. Jak Velasquez ran the passageways of the ship, yelling riotously, his glee turning to alarm as he saw his twin sister getting further and further ahead of him.

"Wait 'retta! 'retta!" He cried out between pants. "Ama-retta!"

"Too slow!" Amaretta called back over her shoulder. "You'll never catch me!" Her laughter echoed off the bulkheads. Jak was the faster of the two, he knew it. But Amaretta was more agile. She could dodge and weave past the busy crew, whilst Jak struggled behind her. He wasn't paying close enough attention and he ran head first into a sailor. Jak was five years old, four foot tall and fat. He bounced straight to the deck.

When he rolled back onto his feet, Amaretta was long gone. She had won the race, again. Jak looked furiously at the sailor he'd run into, who backed away, almost cowering from the bad-tempered child.

"Sorry, Master Velasquez," the sailor grovelled. "So sorry. So sorry." Jak was so shocked by the sailor's reaction that he felt immediately ashamed.

"No, I'm sorry," he said. The sailor blanched as if Jak had hit him. He crab-walked away, his frightened gaze never leaving Jak as he rushed back to his duties.

Jak's anger turned to confusion. He was too young to understand the way some of the crew treated him, the fear and deference. He looked about, but none of the other sailors, adults all, would make eye contact with the son of the captain.

It wasn't until later in the watch that Jak discovered he'd done something wrong. His father wanted to see him, alone, in his great-cabin. He stood outside the heavy wooden doors, snuffling and wiping his eyes. When the doors opened it was his eldest brother who came out, sharp in his midshipman's uniform, the jacket perfectly pressed, gold buttons gleaming.

"Hold fast," Mustek said; even with his own burdens he could always spare a smile for his little brother. He ruffled Jak's hair and leaned down to murmur, "Don't let father see you snivel. Stand tall and look him in the eye."

Jak did his best to dry his eyes as he shuffled into his father's cabin, but he was terrified by the Lord-Captain Oberon Velasquez. Glowering behind his great oak desk, the captain fixed his son with a look.

"I have a report from the lower decks that a sailor has knocked you down. Is that true?"

Standing ramrod straight, young Jak Velasquez shook head forcefully.

"No, Sir."

"No? The report is that the sailor knocked your down and then you apologised to him."

"I ran into him, Sir. I was playing with Amaretta." The Admiral did not seem to have heard him. He was looking down at papers on his desk, a monocle held to his eye. Jak stood in cowering silence before his father, unsure of whether he was meant to say more or if he had been dismissed. Finally, when the tension for the young boy had become unbearable, the Admiral looked up again, putting down his monocle.

"You mother was opposed to my bringing you and your sister on this voyage. Too young she thought," he said, looking at Jak over steepled fingers. "I disagreed. But the crew is under strict instructions to treat you both with the upmost care. To lay hands on either one of you is a serious crime aboard this ship."

"But it was my fault!"

"I agree," the Admiral said. "It is entirely your fault. You have put the poor man in the position where he has committed a crime unwillingly, and you have put me in a position where I will have to punish a man who has served loyally and faithfully. But the crew must know that the captain follows through on his word."

Jak's eyes stung again, tears wet on his cheeks. "Please, Sir, no! It was my fault."

"And worse," the Admiral growled, "you apologised to him. One day you will lead men such as he. What will they think of you if you are cowering and apologising for every mistake. Stand up straight boy!"

Jak was confused now, his head shaking. What did his father want from him? The Admiral sighed.

"You think I am being too cruel, that I am being a tyrant. Stop quaking in your boots, and listen. You cannot apologise to your crew, and you must not put them in the position where they cannot help but fail you. If you do the first they will no longer respect you, and if you do the second they will no longer trust you. I will punish the sailor not because he is a bad man, but because the ship must know that when I say a thing is so that makes it so."

"But Sir," Jak whimpered, before the Admiral cut him off.

"But nothing! The crew are the lifeblood of this ship. They are the only reason I sit behind this desk. We are not the Guard, nor the Inquisition, ensconced in our arrogance, safe in the knowledge that our failures will be met only by grumbling and scowls. A captain of the Imperial Navy captains alone. If I lose the trust, the respect of these men, then they will mutiny and we will discover just how alone I am."

"Yes, Sir," Jak said. There was nothing else to say. But his father was not finished with the lesson.

"The crew of the ship are its lifeblood. Use them, care for them, but always know you are above them. No man escape's the captain's gaze and no man is too valuable to be sacrificed for the good of the ship. Including the captain, if he fails in his duty."

 **=][=**

 _Authors Note: And with that, Jak's back! This is just the brief interlude to Part 3, which will be coming back on a fortnightly schedule, barring any unforeseen setbacks. This means that the last chapter of Dinner with the Inquisition will come out sometime in September._

 _As always, thanks to everyone who's been taking the time to read and review. Many thanks to everyone who wrote to me about food and booze in the Imperium of Man, but a particular thanks to Azakhil who went out of his way to go through Rogue Trader source books that I haven't read for specific insights of gastronomical significance. You're a legend!_

 _My question for this chapter is about the relationship between the Inquisition and the Adeptus Mechanicus. Does the Inquisition's jurisdiction extend to Forge Worlds at all? Is the relationship fraught? (I would assume as much; every other relationship in the universe seems to be) Do the priests of Mars have their own equivalent of the Inquisition? If you know any official books that speak to this relationship and can tell me what the deal is, you will have my eternal gratitude, and, I dunno, a ship named after you or something.  
_


	20. Part 3- Chapter 16

**Part 3**

 **The Hell Ship**

 **Chapter 16**

"Captain's Log, voice activation, Captain Jak Velasquez, Master of the _Yolenna Symphony,_ Letter of Marque sailing out of Scintilla." Dark eyed from fatigue, Jak rested his elbow on the desk, holding the servo skull that recorded the captain's log in one hand and speaking directly into it. "As expected, we encountered the Eldar slavers in the asteroid belt between the planets Lysander VII and Lysander VIII and we engaged them in battle."

The slavers had been targeting the colonies of the Demetrius System, colonies which had renamed themselves the Lysander System in the centuries since their last contact with the greater Imperium and embarked on their own phase of ambitious expansion. They had been eager to rid themselves of the Kabalite Eldar in their system, and with the battleships of the Rogue Trader L'Tarvius aiding them had launched a daring campaign. New to his command since the death of his father and hoping to cover himself in glory, Jak had volunteered the services of his ships, the _Yolenna Symphony_ , _Siren's Wail_ and _Portentia_ , to the so-called Lysandrian Crusade to destroy the Eldar Warp Gate and banish the slavers from the system.

"In the course of battle, we destroyed the Eldar vessel _Blind Lament_ , and caused considerable damage to the ships _Tears of Isha_ and _Agony Eternal_. It is also my belief that one of three Eldar fortresses located within the asteroid field was destroyed, but we were unable to confirm this before being forced to break off our assault. At this point we lost contact with the _Siren's Wail,_ which I believe lost _._ Taking heavy damage, the _Yolenna Symphony_ disengaged and, alongside the _Portentia_ , moved to a suitable Warp translation point in the orbit of Lysander VIII. In doing so, we were pursued by the _Tears of Isha_ , a torture-class cruiser that significantly outgunned my two remaining ships. The _Portentia_ sacrificed herself to allow the _Yolenna Symphony_ to make the jump to the Immaterium."

Jak paused, allowing himself a silent moment to reflect on the dignified and heroic last moment of Captain Gerdal Sinkmoss before he had made his final sacrifice.

"The _Yolenna Symphony_ successfully translated to the Warp, but lost our only Navigator, Seeros E'Al'Xandros, to demonic possession and we were beset by a Warp Storm that took us some way off our planned course. With the assistance of my Astropath Transcendent, Radhati Halksis, we were able to identify a safe course through the Immaterium via some form of psychic beacon, possibly a distress beacon. This beacon led us to our current position, alongside the _Stallion of the Empire_ , which appears to be a treasure galleon pre-dating the Horus Heresy. The ship fired upon us once, with no warning given, and I am told by my Chief Enginseer that the Yolenna's main thrusters have been irreparably damaged. We are left only with manoeuvring thrusters. Since her initial attack, the _Stallion of the Empire_ has taken no further action and responds to no hail. Extensive scanning suggests that there are no signs of human activity aboard the ship, and we can make no guess as to how the ship was able to fire on us without exploring her interior."

Jak took a deep breath, and there was a new steel in his voice when he continued speaking.

"It is my intention to personally lead a small cutting-out party to board the galleon and ascertain its current state of crew and operational capacity. Emperor-willing, we will be able to claim the ship for ourselves in His name. If I fail, this will be my last log, and command of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , last remaining ship of House Velasquez, will fall to my XO…" He paused for a moment.

"My XO, to be named."

 **=][=**

Jak stood alongside his brother's coffin. It was not the only coffin in the hold, hundreds of them had been hastily constructed to carry the dead on their final voyage into the void. There was plenty of room for them, Jak thought, with wry despondence. The voyage had been light on plunder thus far.

He stared down at the coffin. Mustek had been his oldest brother, and his dearest. Despite their difference in age, and a certain feeling that their father had always favoured the older brother, there had been nothing but affection and regard between the two men. And now Mustek was dead, assassinated in the most brutal way imaginable.

"Grief is a monster that duty keeps at bay." The voice came from behind Jak. He looked up into the glowing red eye and weathered face of his Master at Arms, Garian Sykarin.

"I don't grieve," Jak said. "I rage. And plan my vengeance against whoever would do this to my brother."

Garian nodded respectfully at the sentiment. The man looked awful, Jak thought; he had obviously slept little in the Warp and less since their return to the void, where he had coordinated the pacification of a restless ship.

"How fares the crew?" He asked.

"We have a couple dozen recalcitrants in the brig, who committed various crimes during our time in the Warp, but came willingly when arrested. A score more fought my armsmen and were given the Captain's Justice."

"Only a score?"

"Hundreds more are on the medical deck, for various injuries incurred. More concerningly, the Groff is dead."

"The Groff?" Jak was astounded. The ship's ancient Twistcatcher was a mighty chieftain amongst the mutants of the underdeck, he had been keeping the clans in check for over a century. Jak had assumed the old monster would live forever. Although he was a mutant, even Sykarin seemed a little sad to be reporting his death.

"Aye, Sir. There appears to have been some great conflict between the mutant clans during the warp storm. Al Dessi didn't tell you?" Jak shook his head. "Well they fought over something, Emperor only knows what, and now the Groff's people are all dead and the survivors appear to have gone further 'neath the waterline."

"What do you suggest we do about that, Mr Sykarin?"

"Nothing, Sir. With everything we've been through and no idea what's to come, I say we let the mutants lie low and focus our efforts above the water line. But I thought you would want to hear the report."

"Thank you, Mr Sykarin," Jak clapped his Master of Arms on the shoulder. "We came through it, old friend. The voyage continues. And the Warp does not seem to have scarred us too deeply, mutants aside."

Garian's face twisted a little in his uncertainty, dragging his facial scars into ugly new patterns.

"I don't know that I wouldn't have preferred to see a few more rioters, if I am to be honest."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the crew are frightened, and exhausted and catching their breath and that's made them easy enough to keep calm. But sooner or later they'll come to terms with the dire straits that we're in, and then we'll see how well they truly cope."

"You think I should speak to them? Give them a rousing speech? It is what father would have done." Sykarin made another uncomfortable face. He was certainly no good at hiding what he thought. "You don't think that's a good idea, Garian."

"It's only that most of the crew still barely know you, Sir, and those that do are mostly my people. They like you, some like you a great deal even, but…"

 _But you haven't earned their respect yet._ HateFearLove, Jak's xenos steward, Jestross, had called it, the smell of a happy crew. Hating, fearing and loving their captain all at once. The memory worried Jak. He tried to smile it off.

"You mean they think I'm fine to have a drink with, just not the person to be in charge when the chips are down, is that it? Easy-going and soft?"

"You can't just give a rousing speech, Sir. You have to earn it. The crew will learn to respect you, I truly believe that. If you harden up the discipline, don't play favourites, keep the ship running steady and get them through this. Show them all that, and they'll be yours to the end. It'll just take time."

"Time?" Jak barked a laugh. "How much time do you think we have? Look where we are. Chances are none of us our going to make it out of here alive."

Sykarin looked at him with evident concern. "Don't worry," Jak grinned, "that wasn't going to be in my speech." Sykarin said nothing and, feeling that he had failed some kind of test in his old mentor's mind, Jak dismissed him and returned to brooding over Mustek's coffin until his first mate arrived.

Despite having gone without sleep for thirty-six hours, Ravenna Al Dessi still presented as impeccably presented, perfectly brushed hair and shoes shining.

"What news from the breaching party?" Jak asked, as his second in command took her place beside him.

"They've made external contact at the command deck launch bay on the _Stallion of the Empire,_ Sir. The tech priests believe they should be able to get the doors open within the hour."

"Very good. Tell them to secure the launch bay but undertake no further exploration until we've joined them. We have no idea what to expect on that ship. Something attacked us, Al Dessi and I want to know who it was and why they won't answer us."

"Very good, Sir. Will there be anything else?"

Jak did not glance at his XO's face, although he dearly wanted to. The woman had been his father's most loyal servant, but Jak suspected that loyalty to the father did not extend to the son. Although she had shown nothing but deference in public, she had dismally failed to identify his father's killer, and Jak wondered if she wasn't keeping things from him. Not to mention the fact that she had assaulted him, an act that would have been a capital crime had either of them still been in the navy, and the late Admiral Velasquez had always run his ship by the Imperial Navy's Articles of War.

"Why didn't you tell me the Groff was dead?" Al Dessi hadn't been expecting that one. She hesitated.

"You had… a great deal on your mind, Sir. I didn't think it warranted your attention given everything else that had happened in such a short space of time."

"But you knew he had been killed. That the mutant clans had warred."

"Yes."

Jak decided not to pursue it any further. He had other, far great concerns.

"What can you tell me about my brother's death?"

"His life support sarcophagus was sabotaged; a pocket lumen was used to ignite the atmosphere inside. He would have died almost instantly. We have no security vids of the event. Borelyle had your brother moved to a room with no security servos just over a week ago, but he is being cagey as to why."

Jak sighed. "Erasmus is trying to protect me. I was the one who wanted Mustek moved."

"Sir, If I may," Ravenna began, but Jak interrupted her. "Because we had no room in the med bay and I didn't want the dead and dying draped all over him," he snapped. "I told the Chief Chirugeon to move him somewhere private, and his assassin took advantage of that to kill him. And once again, the only person who benefits from this murder is me."

Ravenna showed no reaction to his on her face, but Jak could tell that she believed he was the assassin, or had at least ordered the deaths.

"It's true, Al Dessi, there's no point hiding it. I'm now the last Velasquez left on board this ship. My siblings can make their own claims, if we ever make it back to Calixis, but they know I'd never give up the _Yolenna Symphony_ once she was in my control."

"You could though," Ravenna said. "You could relinquish control to the Arbites or the Navy. You could show your family that you are serious about obeying the law."

"Or I could give them the killer!" Jak roared. "That was your job Al Dessi. Where is my assassin?" His second in command took a step back in the face of his anger. "Where is the person who murdered my brother?"

"I do not know, Sir. We have no leads, and the investigation was left to wait whilst we went crusading in the Lysander system. In truth, I had believed that the assassin slipped off ship when we docked to resupply at Lysander III. Now, perhaps we know differently. Perhaps, in fact, an assassin slipped _onto_ our ship whilst we were docked."

"From where?"

"From the _Siren's Wail_ , Sir. It would make sense. We always suspected that the explosion that first injured your brother was no accident, and the saboteur may have been trying to follow him from ship to ship then waiting for the opportunity to finish their work. And there is something else that fits. The _Siren's Wail_ had been having issues with its mutant population for months before Mustek Velasquez was injured, and had suffered from the rise of strange shipboard cults as well. Garian Sykarin even went over himself to intervene, with a crack troop of armsmen."

"I remember now, I had forgotten that expedition" Jak said. "You think whatever stirred up trouble on the _Siren's Wail_ went on to affect our ship as well?"

"Whatever, or whoever," Ravenna said, nodding. "The issues on the _Siren's Wail_ ended after the resupply. That seems more than coincidence. Do you want me to follow it up?"

"No," Jak paused, and turned away from the coffin. "You have enough on your plate Al Dessi. I'll select someone to carry out the investigation, and give them the resources they need to do it right. That will be all."

 **=][=**

The machine does not suffer, for all pain is knowledge.

The mantra ran through Tech Adept Maternin Shyendi's mind like lines of repeating code. _I will be the machine,_ she told herself. _And the machine does not suffer, for all pain is knowledge._

Her cell in the brig was too small for even one person to stand, let alone three, so when they came to interrogate her she was dragged out, still in her fetters, and led to an adjoining interview room where her manacles were mag-locked to the table. Harsh light from a hanging lumen was shone directly into her face, an intimidation tactic, no doubt. They needn't have bothered, Maternin's mechanical eyes adjusted automatically to the sudden change of light and she stared impassively at her interrogators.

To her surprise, one of the men was the head of the captain's guard, Borjean Narn. He grunted a greeting to Maternin but had none of his usual bounce or volume, presumably due to the presence of his superior officer, the ship's Master at Arms. Garian Sykarin placed a pistol on the table in front of Maternin. She recognised it as the gun which she had used to kill Lachrimallus Timmon. A gun that Borjean had given her.

"The charge will be murder of a crewmate, _in absentio res_." The Master at Arms read out.

"Within the Empyrean," Borjean added helpfully. "I assume you'll plead self-defence in the face of madness."

"Shut up," the Master at Arms told him. "The ship is busy, adept. We know you shot the Lachrimallus, fatally. We have the weapon you used, and every gun on this ship is code-locked and tracked so that we know when and where it is used."

Maternin shot Borjean a look, and the bodyguard had the decency to look embarrassed. The Master at Arms fixed his one good eye on Maternin. "I know Borjean gave you the gun. He's a fool, but he wasn't betraying you. He's not high enough rank to know that the weapon was tracked. He genuinely thought he was protecting you. From what, I don't know. You can tell your story to the Board of Judgement when one is convened. I would suggest you keep it short, simple and honest. Many things happen in the Warp, and the captain may well choose to be merciful."

"Sir, when will I be brought before the Board?" Maternin's question was met with a weary shrug and silence from the Master at Arms. Borjean spoke up, still contrite before his former commander.

"The captain won't convene a Board of Judgement till we know what we're facing with this damnable mystery ship. Clear out all the ghosts, hey?"

"Ghosts?" Maternin gave an involuntary, very un-Mechanicus, shudder at the memory of the appalling hallucination of her dead mother that she had experienced in the Immaterium.

 _If he knew what you had done, you would already be dead._ The message had seemed to come from the Immaterium itself. _It should never have been found._ Had those words really come from Timmon's mouth, or from her own repressed guilt? No one on this vessel knew the full story of why her family's people had been in the Lysander system, and why their ship had been boarded by the Kabalite Eldar. No one but Maternin knew the truth.

"Ghosts, monsters, daemons who have worked out how to operate a macro-cannon. Who knows?" Borjean gave a hollow laugh. Maternin could see that he was itching to be drunk again.

"Shut up," ordered the Master at Arms, a second time.

"I bloody well won't, Sykarin," Borjean snapped. "I'm not your whipping boy anymore, Sir, by the throne I am not. Something shot at us and the sensors say there's no humans on board that ship. What else am I supposed to think?"

"Why wouldn't you assume that it was the vessel's automated defences?" Maternin asked, confused. Like it had been choreographed, both men turned to her at once, their heads whipping round and their voices in unison.

"What?"

 **=][=**

"Automated defences. Is it true?"

The Archmagos considered Jak from behind his expressionless metal mask and glowing green eyes. The only thing breaking the silent tension between the two was the echoing rasp of the tech priest's rebreather.

"Who told you of this?" Dhukov asked finally.

"Automated weaponry, Dhukov. An entire battery of cannons and lances able to fire themselves at will. That ship could have been empty for millennia and you didn't think to tell me that it was even a possibility?"

Jak had tracked the Chief Enginseer to the ruins of the Enginarium, where the Archmagos was coordinating rescue efforts- not of surviving crew, Jak noted, but of ship components. The adepts fussed and cossetted over smoking slabs of reactor modules, whilst corpses lay piled in an untidy heap, waiting to be carted away to the Chief Chirugeon's organ reclaimants.

Dhukov stepped away from the emergency sealed blast door that he had been attempting to repair, and considered his captain for a long time before repeating his question.

"Who told you that this technology existed?"

"Is it possible?" Jak wanted to shout at him, but kept his temper.

"It is possible," the Archmagos conceded. "Likely, even. The most plausible explanation for the shot fired by the _Stallion of the Empire_ is that it possesses automated defences systems which became operational once it sensed us draw close."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"The secrets of the Adeptus Mechanicus are not to be shared under any circumstances. If you did not know these things for yourself, it was not my duty to enlighten you. To do so would have been a betrayal of the third universal law. You do not perceive the value of knowledge. You think of this as simply an opportunity to gain wealth and power."

"Isn't it? Dhukov, imagine if we'd had that power against the Eldar. A ship that can pick its target, load and fire at will? Don't you see? She chose us! She shot our engines, crippled us so that we would have to board her! She wants us to take her for ourselves."

"No!" Jak had never heard the Chief Enginseer raise his voice, but his dull mechanical tones echoed off the bulkheads and his eyes flared a vivid emerald. "This is no soulless sentience, no blaspheming machine intelligence. It is simply a machine spirit of a complexity we no longer possess the comprehension to create. It chose nothing, it simply obeyed the ritual orders presented to it ten thousand years ago. Our sacred duty is to that machine spirit, to preserve its integrity, not take advantage of it."

Jak's eyes narrowed. He did not want to get into an argument with his Chief Enginseer on this topic, not when he would need the man's help aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_.

"We can agree at least then, Dhukov, that we need to board the ship. To see the technology with our own eyes."

"Indeed, Velasquez. I have prepared my team already in anticipation of the boarding action. We will be ready to depart on your order."

Jak smiled. "Very good. And then Dhukov, when we get back, you're going to tell me everything you know that you've been holding back. Everything you know that I don't."

"Lord-Captain," Dhukov said, "sharing with you the sheer volume of knowledge that I possess and you do not could keep us occupied until the heat death of the universe."

But Jak was already walking away. "Then let's hope you learn to talk faster."

 **=][=**

Still in chains, Maternin was brought to the captain's great-cabin. To her surprise, the captain recognised and still remembered her.

"This is the Genitari," Velasquez said. "The one we rescued off the _Vonaznaniya-17.8._ "

"Yes Sir," said Borjean, with an odd pride in his voice. "The one who slew the Mandrake, Sir."

"I only assisted," Maternin said quickly. "It was your xenos who slew the Mandrake." The captain waved the modesty off.

"You served the ship well that day, and I hear you've done it again. You told Mr Narn and Mr Sykarin that the _Stallion of the Empire_ likely possessed automated cannons. The Chief Enginseer has confirmed what you said. He didn't like me knowing about it."

Maternin had regretted saying something as soon as she'd realised that these people had not known such technology existed. It went against everything she believed in as Adeptus Mechanicus to share knowledge so freely and recklessly. But she had not grown up amongst these people, she had not realised how truly backwards the greater Empire was compared to the Priests of Mars. And she had thought that any small child knew of the technologies that had once blessed the void ships of the Imperium.

"This technology was once common across the Empire, Sir, to guide the ships' weaponry even in the event that the crew itself was lost. Every vessel that flew the Aquila likely possessed some form of it."

The captain shook his head in wonderment. "Such a people we once were."

"And could be again," Maternin said, with more passion in her voice than she'd intended. Why could she never keep her mouth closed when she should? But she forged ahead, "We could be that and so much more, we could be ten thousand years more advanced, if we had not become so hopelessly stagnant."

Jak shared a glance with Borjean and Jestross. "Stagnant? That doesn't sound like any red robe talk I've heard before, Genitari. It sounds downright heretical, in fact." He gave a laugh, but Maternin jerked upright like she'd been prodded with a shock-rod.

"I apologise, Sir. I meant no blasphemy."

"No," Jak said quickly, cutting over any attempt to explain. "No one in this room cares one iota for Omnissian philosophy, and we've all lived with some blasphemy in the name of the Empire, as Jestross here can attest to. A little heresy is required to survive the void, as my Confessor used to say. We take a somewhat pragmatic approach to these things on board my ship, and what's important," he stood up from his desk and moved around in front of Maternin, looming over her. "What's important is that you were honest with me. I could do with a little more of that from my advisors."

At some unspoken signal between the two men, Borjean stepped forward and ran a transmitter over Maternin's chains, the locks clicking open and the shackles falling from her. Captain Velasquez graced her with his wide, satisfied smile and held out a hand.

"Maternin Shyendi, I'm leading a team of specialists aboard a ten-thousand-year-old ghost ship and I need people I can trust alongside me. What do you say?"

 **=][=**

Getting the young tech priestess to agree to board the _Stallion of the Empire_ had been easy; no red robe could have resisted the opportunity to poke around on a ship possessing so much ancient technology. Selecting the rest of the boarding team had been harder. Jak gathered his senior command cadre in the conference room to announce his team.

Jak would have to lead the boarding party, of course. A privateer was no Imperial Captain, secured in his position by right of a naval commission and a commissar's bolt pistol. The privateer captain's power was precarious, and dependent on the respect of the crew. The captain needed to lead from the front, to show that he would not send his people anywhere that he himself feared to tread. Besides which, the _Stallion of the Empire_ was an astonishingly magnificent ghost ship whose history pre-dated the Heresy; Jak wouldn't have missed boarding her for the world.

He would also need his Chief Enginseer, and Dhukov's team of tech priests. Dhukov had not attended the meeting; presumably he was already assembling his people on the command bay shuttle deck. Someday soon, Jak would have to do something about the subtle insubordinations of the Archmagos, but today was not that day.

He looked about the room, his eyes falling on Radhati Halksis, his last surviving Astropath. It was Halksis who had detected the psychic emanations coming from the _Stallion of the Empire_ , and had used them to guide the _Yolenna Symphony_ to her. What that had cost the elderly psyker, Jak was still not sure. He stood ramrod straight, blind eyes looking nowhere. It was impossible to tell how present he was in the room, or whether his mind was… elsewhere. No matter, by dint of his abilities and experience alone, Radhati Halksis would need to join them.

"I will be taking two shuttles of thirty sailors total, along with another dozen who will stay on the Stallion's command deck shuttle bay to secure our quick exit if one is required. Ten of those sailors will be Chief Enginseer Dhukov's people, who will identify and protect any ancient technology that we find aboard the ship. Astropath Transcendent Halksis will also join us, along with our Keeper of the Faith, Confessor Salazar and Keeper of the Librarium Casanovus. My personal guard of Narn, Farisr, Jestross and Helmsworth will be joined by twelve armsmen picked by the Master at Arms," Jak paused and gave Sykarin a brief nod, "and led by Third Officer Stieg, and First Officer Al Dessi."

There was a small rumble of surprise from the gathered officers. Jak ignored it. "In my absence and in the event that I am injured or otherwise incapacitated, the _Yolenna Symphony_ will be commanded by Master at Arms Sykarin." There, it was done. Garian was the obvious choice to lead the armsmen of the boarding party, but did Jak trust Ravenna alone and in control of his ship? She had shown nothing but loyalty and deference since he had taken command of the Yolenna, give or take a punch to the jaw, but something did not sit right with him. Why had she kept the Grof's death to herself?

Perhaps he was being paranoid. But his father and brother were dead and the assassin or assassins who had killed them both still stalked his ship. In such circumstances, a little paranoia was not out of place.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I do not need to tell you that rarely in our lives are we granted an opportunity of such significance. If we are able to successfully recover the _Stallion of the Empire_ , it will be a deed spoken of back in the Calixis Sector for centuries to come. Now, Confessor Salazar will lead us in a prayer, asking the Emperor's blessings for a successful endeavour."

As the assembled officers bowed their heads, Jak caught a glimpse of Ravenna Al Dessi, leaning against the wall, her eyes on her captain. He expression was utterly inscrutable.

 **=][=**

"All Hail to the Glory of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Beacon of Humanity, Light that will never die, Lens of the Astronomicon, Saviour of the Dark Wastes of the Galaxy. May his golden gaze fall favourably on the endeavours of our valiant crew."

Maternin listened with interest to the prayers playing through the flight deck vox-casters. She had grown up only speaking binary; she had learned Gothic as a curiosity but had always regarded it as a clumsy, imprecise language. Still there was something musical and stirring about its prayers that the _technica lingua_ could not match.

"Come on now, red robe, don't hang about in the middle of the deck like a promethium stain," Borjean called out. He was struggling into a void suit that was clearly a few sizes too small for him, hopping up to the tech priestess. Maternin could only shrug helplessly.

"I haven't been provided with instructions on where to present myself."

"Well what are you doing here then?"

"I wasn't sure where else to be."

With as much dignity as he could muster, Borjean finally got the two sides of the void suit to meet over his rotund belly, and nodded sagely. "I often make decisions the same way," he said, but his heart didn't seem to be in the banter. His attention was on a crowd of sailors working around the Yolenna's Valkyries.

"What are you looking at?" Maternin asked. Borjean pointed at a senior mechwright who was screaming abuse at his charges.

"See that man? Before our last warp sojourn, he was as meek as a lamb. Now he rants and raves like a drunken deacon."

"You worry for his sanity?" Borjean snorted at Maternin's question.

"His, yours, the whole bloody ship's. This crew has been stretched to breaking point. It's an armsman's job to keep an eye on everyone. Who's acting differently, who's talking to themselves, who's starting at shadows. It's the armsman's job to protect the ship against the madness that has bled through the Warp."

"You're not an armsman anymore," Maternin pointed out.

"No, true. I'm in charge of the captain's protection detail, with an assassin running about loose on board our fair ship of madmen. So, I have to keep an even closer eye on everyone. Mark my word, red robe, this crew is close to the edge."

 **=][=**

Reliquary Jate, Master of the Vox, approached Jak after their prayers. "Sir, may I speak to you?"

Jak glanced up from a dataslate outlining the ship's dwindling medical supplies. "Go ahead, Vox-Master."

"Perhaps in the privacy of your cabin, Sir?" Jak gave Jate a long look. She was a veteran of the navy, but not one with any great connection to his father, so it was something of a surprise that she had thrown in her career to take her chances with a privateer. With her vivid white hair, handsome face and white eyepatch she looked every inch the dashing naval veteran. She was good, too, the Admiral had made her Vox-Master of the fleet once he'd seen the good work she'd done on the _Siren's Wail_. She knew her business and she didn't waste time.

"Come to my great cabin in ten," he told her.

Jestross was helping Jak to fit his carapace vest, when the guards at the door let Jate in. She was carrying a small vox-box which she placed on Jak's desk. Jak fixed the Velasquez sword at his waist, and shrugged on a black vralask-leather bomber jacket. "What's that?" He nodded at the vox-box.

"You should listen to this, Sir."

"This couldn't wait until my return?"

"Perhaps." Jate looked uncomfortable. "But I didn't feel that it was my place to decide."

Sensing something in her voice, Jak moved over to the desk and picked up the vox. "Perhaps in private, Sir?" Jate suggested. At Jak's nod, Jestross loped off to his kitchens. "Now tell me what you want me to listen to Ms Jate."

"It's a conversation, Sir. One that I recorded a few hours ago."

"A conversation?"

"Yes, Sir. The _Yolenna Symphony_ is strung up with a secondary private vox network, jury-rigged. I noticed it when I first arrived, and was doing some routine maintenance work on the cathedral deck."

"You do the maintenance work yourself?"

"I like to get in amongst the wiring. I like to know how the spirits move." Jak grinned.

"Well then. Why does my ship have a private jury-rigged vox network?"

"Exactly what I asked myself, Sir. So, I followed it around the ship and this network goes everywhere, from the underdecks to the Enginarium. It's not sophisticated, but it could be used to hold conversations completely undetected by my people."

"And you don't know who built it?"

"No idea, Sir. I didn't mention that I'd found it to anybody. Just sat tight on it and tapped in to listen. And I didn't hear a damn thing for weeks."

"Until a few hours ago."

"Yes Sir."

"Play it for me."

"It's not easy to understand. I've written a transcript for you, as best I could."

The voices in the recording were clouded by static and distorted to the point of unrecognizability. Jak followed along on the transcript as he listened.

 _[unintelligible] you not to contact me again…I told you that we weren't finished. You owe me one more [unintelligible] was the deal. All three of them. The father and both sons. The job's not finished…I'm finished. I'm done. The boy's done well. [unintelligible] understand now. [unintelligible] what I've done… Regret? Have you forgotten Azakhil?...Don't talk to me about Azakhil. You know nothing [unintelligible] just wanted this ship for yourself. But I'm closer to the [unintelligible] I'll protect him from you…Protect him? What can you protect [unintelligible] fool?...We're done you [unintelligible]… done when I say we're done. Don't try to cross [unintelligible]…Don't contact me again._

The vox-box wound down, and Jak met eyes with Jate over the top of the transcript. "These are our assassins?"

"At least two of them from the sound of things."

"Who have you told about this."

"No one, Sir. I took it to you straight away."

"Good. Tell no one. How can we track this conversation? How can we identify the speakers?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Jate said. "I don't believe that we can. I didn't dare tamper with the network for fear of giving away that I was aware of it, but that means the message could have come from one of a hundred locations within the ship. And the conversation did sound like it was between two people who were unlikely to want to speak again."

Jak nodded, Jate was right. He sat on the side of his desk and looked over the transcript again. What did it all mean? The father and both sons. The boy's done well?

"What is Azakhil?"

"I knew that you'd ask, Sir, and I checked the Librarium records before coming here. There's no ship, planet or individual by that name anywhere in the Yolenna's records. I don't know what the word means."

Jak scratched his beard thoughtfully, his eyes still locked on the transcript. "Before my brother was murdered, the Keeper of the Purse left a suicide note confessing to killing my father. Unless Rollyk No Koll has miraculously come back to life it would appear that his confession was planted. We have two assassins still on board this ship, Ms Jate, and at least one of them wants to kill me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Look into this. The mutants dwelling on the underdecks were fighting whilst we were in the Immaterium, that's why the Groff is dead. I don't know how it's all connected but it is, I swear it. Speak to no one about this private network, share this transcript with no one but look into it. I want some answers by the time I return from the _Stallion of the Empire_."

"Yes Sir."

Jak dismissed Jate and finished preparing himself to board the treasure galleon. He slung his bandolier of grenades over his shoulder and checked the charges on his las-carbine. Once he was done, he called out to his steward, who had kept discreetly to the kitchens. "You need any help getting yourself ready, Jestross?"

Jestross emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large, wickedly sharp blade in each of his four massive hands. He gave his snuffling, clacking laugh. "Ready," the alien announced.

Jak grinned. "Well. Very good then. Let's go."

 **=][=**

The shuttle pilot was a youthful man with floppy dark hair and an inordinately cheerful grin. He, at least, seemed to have suffered no ill effects from a long sojourn through the Immaterium, Maternin thought to herself.

"Heading across to the mystery ship, Mistress adept?" He asked. "May I take your luggage?"

Maternin hesitated. She had not been instructed to bring anything with her to the _Stallion of the Empire_. The pilot took pity on her. "Just a joke, mistress, it lightens up the void. Don't fret, let me show you to your chariot."

Maternin pointed in the direction of Borjean, who was shouting orders to the sailors loading up the shuttles with weaponry. "I thought I would go with Bor- with Mr Narn."

"Oh no, mistress, that ride's for the captain's people. We're heading across with the boys and girls in red." The pilot pointed to the tech priests gathered around his Valkyrie. They were explorators, the Archmagos' personal away team, their hulking, bionic armoured frames making them look all but identical to the untrained eye. Each carried an array of weaponry; grafted flamer arms, combi-tool axes and pistol-wielding servo skulls. None of them took any notice of Maternin as she approached, they all studious ignored the interloper.

The pilot seemed to have noticed Maternin's outsider status amongst her own people, and took it upon himself to chatter to her inanely, as he ran through external checks of his shuttle. She let him talk without responding, and ran her hand over the old boat, a Condor-class Valkyrie, aging and scarred. She took a moment to appreciate the ancient genius of the minds that must have designed such a vessel. What staunch frame, what tireless power. What else could such minds have made? What awaited them aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_? One day, why couldn't she leave such a legacy behind, if she were worthy? But that last thought, she knew, was blasphemy.

A harsh caw from overhead rang out strangely amongst the mechanical hubbub of the shuttle deck and interrupted her thinking. Maternin looked up and saw a whole murder of crows looking down on them from perches atop the hammerbeams. She remembered seeing them on her first walk through the ship. The pilot caught her eye and looked up, as well.

"The dark passengers," he said. "Always come down to sing us a goodbye when we depart. The good Admiral Velasquez had them aboard every ship. Used to consider them lucky. Because of his name, see? Velasquez. It means…" he paused, clicking his fingers as he tried to recall. "It means…"

"Sons of the Crow!" Boomed a voice, and Maternin spun around to see the captain striding across the deck. He wore black, head to toe, a leather jacket over padded void-suit pants. His dark hair hung loose about his shoulders and he radiated the confidence of a lion. "We are sons of the crow, so our dark-winged brothers come to wish us well. Except we both know that's not true, don't we Captain Tellmos? The greedy old birds are only hanging about because they know the rattle and burn of our departure will shake out all kinds of insects and vermin from between the bulkheads."

"Yes, Sir!" The pilot responded with a grin.

"You my pilot today, Tellmos?" The captain asked.

"No, Sir. I'm bringing the tech priests across."

"Shame, I'll miss your weather report."

"Yes Sir!" Jak gave the pilot a nod and Tellmos jogged off towards his shuttle. Maternin wasn't sure if she had been dismissed as well, but then Velasquez put a hand on her shoulder.

"You did well to be honest with me before. Don't lose that instinct. I know the Mechanicus have their secrets and I respect that, I won't ask you to blab the whole lot to me, but if there's something that could save this crew aboard that ship, I need to know. You understand?"

"I… think I do, Sir."

"You do." The captain could not have been much older than Maternin, but in this moment, he seemed to project an authority she could not put a name to. She wondered if it was something that he'd learned, or something that you just had to be born with. Certainly, Dhukov had never had it implanted in his wetware.

The Archmagos stared silently at Maternin for some time as she boarded the Valkyrie, but to her immense relief, he did not accost her and ask why she had been brought along. She went to take a seat at the back but Dhukov pulled her up short with a burst of binary and directed her to the seat directly behind Tellmos. She fumbled with the seatbelts but they did not seem to be fully functional.

The pilot turned around with a professional glance at his passengers, and gave a signal to his co-pilot to begin the take-off. "Alright, alright, welcome to the mystery tour bus, honoured guests from the Enginarium. We'll be departing shortly for the _Stallion of the Empire_. The weather report says atmosphere is breathable, and the temperature is cold enough to freeze a tech priests ni- well, it's pretty cold is all I've say. Rumour has it that the old girl's filled with ancient treasure from the God-Emperor himself, so mind the damp and we'll have you over before you can say 'My elbows need oiling up.'"

Almost nothing of what he'd said made much sense to Maternin and the other priests had seemed to pay it no mind, so she settled back into her seat and tried to make herself comfortable. Mind the damp? The interior of the Valkyrie was perfectly dry.

The thought stayed with her as she joined in the rituals of departure that she knew by rote. She could feel the machine spirit of the Condor all around her, weary but dependable

The pilots finalised their communion with the shuttle's machine spirit and waited as the great blast doors lifted open, and the maglocks lifted the ship into position. The darkness of the void and the shining silhouette of the _Stallion of the Empire_ awaited them. It was just as the engines fired up with a muted roar, that Archmagos Dhukov leaned across and addressed Maternin with a terse rush of binary.

"'Mind the damp' is a colloquialism for these people. He means to say that this vessel experiences regular fluctuations in the inertial dampeners. You should have put more effort into securing your seatbelt, experimentor. It is going to be an uncomfortable ride for you."

And then they were off, a blazing comet, racing towards the _Stallion of the Empire_.

 **=][=**

 _Authors Note: So, a private message brought up a question that I'd made the mistake of thinking was clear, so I will answer it here in case others were wondering: Yes, the identity of the assassin(s) is a character that has already been introduced to us, it's not going to be some random crewmember nobody has heard of. I've been doing my best to weave clues into each chapter, but the serialised nature of the story means that I have little idea whether I've made it too obvious/obscure -I suspect it's likely one or the other though. All will be revealed before too long._

 _My question for this chapter concerns the Astartes. I know enough about the setting to know there are some big names, Ultramarines and Space Wolves and the like, and there's something to be said for the fun of designing your own chapter from scratch as well. But I want to know about the more obscure chapters that already exist in the canon. So, my question is this: which Space Marine chapters don't get their due, or are awesome but barely seen anywhere? What makes them so tragic/badass/bizarre/intriguing? And as always, where would I be able to read more about them?_


	21. Part 3- Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Although the face of the Arch-Traitor, Horus Lupercal, had been pockmarked by ten thousand years of astral debris, still his stern gaze, clear and focused, looked out into the void. Maternin observed the long dead monster's gold-plated eyes through the porthole as their shuttle flew in close to the _Stallion of the Empire,_ a ship built before his heresy and betrayal had thrown a burgeoning young Empire into chaos. But Maternin was less interested in the monument than in the ship on which it was affixed. Warped hull plating and countless battle scars marred the magnificent treasure galleon, but for a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, these were but minor blemishes in a creation that had stood the test of time.

Bursts of excited binary crackled back and forth through the cabin of the shuttle as the explorators got their first clear look at the galleon up close. This was a holy moment, a precious moment, but also one in which the important work of protecting and reclaiming the ship began in earnest.

"Observe the hull," Dhukov said to his explorators. "Scarring, but no buckling, no penetration."

"Perhaps there is more damage on the ship's port side," one of the explorators said. "We should order the shuttle captain to take us around the ship and observe her from all angles."

"There may be more damage on the port side, but the power needed to make such a ship inoperable would pass straight through her armour. We would see the evidence of it here, we would see the damage, but she is remarkable in her condition. I believe that this ship was not lost in battle."

"Still, we should inspect the whole of the hull," the explorator insisted.

"It would be more efficient to run diagnostic rites from the primary command consoles," Maternin said, leaning forward in her seat. "Look, there is still emergency power." She pointed to the light that spilled from the vista dome of the Stallion's bridge, a faint, bluish glow that had survived through the millennia stranded in the void.

The explorators ignored her, but Maternin knew that they had to concede her point. Finally, Dhukov said, "We will land at the shuttle bay. I do not trust the captain left alone on board this holy vessel."

"I don't know what you all are beeping and buzzing about," their pilot, Tellmos, called out from the front of the shuttle. "but that is one damn fine looking ship."

"A _fine_ looking ship," he repeated as they disembarked on the command deck launch bay. The cavernous space was darker and more streamlined than the _Yolenna Symphony'_ s but there were far more similarities than differences between the two ships. The enormous power cells for the ship's small craft, the emergency fire bunker for crew to huddle in if explosions rocked the deck; all were where one would expect to find them, all laid in out in the blessed templates passed down to humanity from the Omnissiah. Maternin saw crew from the Yolenna walking about without rebreather masks and removed her own. The atmosphere was thin and stale but tolerable.

The captain was speaking to one of the first boarders of the ship. Seeing the tech priests disembarking, he waved them over. He stood tall and commanding before the group, but Maternin could hear the boyish enthusiasm for exploration in his voice as he addressed the boarding party.

"Alright ladies, gentlemen and red robes, eyes forward and guns ready. We don't know what's still living aboard this ship so we need to be ready for anything. Our priorities are finding out what condition she's in, securing her astrogation logs and locating the psychic beacon that called out to our AT. Dhukov, I want you to take your team and locate the ship's bridge. Al Dessi's squad will go with you for protection."

"Very well." Dhukov pointed at Maternin. "That one goes with you. You requested her presence here."

Jak shrugged. "That's fine. Leave me one more of your people in case we come across any locked purity seals. Now," he looked about the launch bay, "do you know how you're going to get to the bridge?"

Dhukov turned slowly, eye things glowing as he scanned the ship. "No," he said at last.

"The third hatch past the frame" Maternin said, pointing. Dhukov and Jak turned towards her. "It will take us to a central passageway, three decks below the bridge. That will be the shortest route."

"How in the good God-Emperor's galaxy do you know that, Shyendi?" Jak asked.

"My… my father used to show me ship schematics and have me memorise them. He would give me two points on a random ship and I would have to describe the fastest route."

The captain stared at her in silence for a time. "And I thought my childhood was strange," he said at last. He turned to Dhukov. "Well, there you are. Shyendi goes with you, unless you want to be blundering around in the dark. My group will be guided by Halksis. Al Dessi, get your people together. Sergeant Mkall, your armsmen are to keep this launch bay secure, don't come running unless you hear from me and me only. Tellmos, Quetrian, your shuttles will be ready to leave in a hurry if we need?"

"Aye, Sir," the two pilots saluted in unison.

"Very good. The rest of you are with me." Filled with a mixture of reverence, zeal and trepidation, the explorers of the _Yolenna Symphony_ set off into the ancient ship.

 **=][=**

Jak's group walked the vast lightless passageways of the ships, every footstep echoing out into the seemingly unending distance. Jak was struck by just how silent a ship could become with her main reactors powered down, how every metallic creak and rattle stood out, _making nervy sailors start and look about them. Whereas passageways on the Yolenna_ Symphony were cramped, boxy affairs, the bulkheads busy with cables, pipes and terminals, the _Stallion of the Empire_ was a sleeker ship, and her pale grey bulkheads were smooth and curving.

The void had preserved the ship over the millennia, but in certain pockets the atmospheric scrubbers had failed and the explorers needed to wear their rebreathers for a time, or a grav plate had buckled and they were forced to take slow, mag-locked, footsteps across the decking.

Halksis took the lead, with Borjean alongside him. The captain's bodyguard carried one of the Yolenna's few bolter pistols, and Jak's instructions to him prior to departure had been clear; blow the astropath's head off at the first sign of any daemonic possession.

Jak kept to the centre of the party, alongside the two keepers, Salazar and Casanovus. He took a moment to assess them as they walked the long, dark passageways. Both men would surely be the weak links in any sustained combat action that they came across.

The portly confessor Salazar carried his traditional flamer with him. It would be difficult to think of a more useless weapon for the pressurised atmosphere of a void ship than a flamer, but although the Navy had tried for ten thousand years, it had been forever impossible to dislodge the ecclesiasty from their traditions. At least Salazar was sensible enough to keep his unlit for the moment.

Casanovus was a man Jak did not know well, except by reputation. Young and foppish, the Keeper of the Librarium had been something of a minor celebrity on Scintilla, an author and adventurer of some notoriety. Jak had no idea what fate had brought him to the _Yolenna Symphony,_ but he looked comfortable enough with a las-pistol in his hand, and although Casanovus looked nothing like your typical crusty librarian savant, Jak hoped he'd possess some knowledge that would come in useful during their explorations.

"Captain, look." Jak turned to the voice. It was one of his personal guards, Helmsworth, who had spoken; the man had only just been discharged from the med bay when he had volunteered for this endeavour. He was pointing the lumen on his rifle at the bulkhead, which had been stained, smeared and gouged. Jak thought he recognised the distinctive splatter patterns, although the stains were likely thousands of years old, and one of Dhukov's explorators confirmed his suspicions.

"That is human blood, captain. Ancient, possibly from one of the vessel's original crew."

Runes had been carved into the bulkhead, strange symbols that seemed to suck at the eyeball and make the stomach heave. Jak had to squint to keep looking without his eyes watering. The largest of them ran from head height to the decking, deep vertical scours emanating from a central tangle of impossible angles. It seemed that the blood had been poured to run down the carved rivulets.

"Salazar, Casanovus. Can either of you make something of these?"

"These symbols have the stench of chaos about them, my Lord," said the confessor, turning away with a sneer. "The lost and the damned have infected this ship." Casanovus took a more academic approach, leaning in close and studying the runes.

"I agree, Captain. This is chaos script." His voice was strained as he said it and he dry retched a little as he turned away from them. "It's forbidden to study, so I can't tell you what it says, but I've seen descriptions of similar markings on pirate vessels, including the somewhat nauseating effects of studying them too closely." His mouth twisted in gentile distaste, as if he'd just eaten something unpleasant.

The group turned as one to Stieg, the gunnery master and ex-pirate, who scowled to hide his embarrassment at the sudden attention. "What?" He growled. He had been training his las-rifle down the passageway, studiously ignoring the runes.

"What do you make of these symbols Stieg? You seen anything like them before?"

Stieg stared at his captain for a time, and then, with a scowl and a glance towards the confessor, he walked over to the bulkhead and studied it. The runes seemed to have no obvious ill effect on him.

"I know that big one," the old man admitted finally. "It's a placation of Burn."

"A what?"

"Old sailor's script. You see it on reaving ships when… when the fighting's getting out of hand. A message to the gods between the stars." Stieg almost never spoke with this kind of hesitation, and he stole nervous looks at the thunder-faced confessor as he spoke.

As most naval officers learned to do, Jak took a somewhat relaxed approach towards religion and the doctrines of the Imperial Cult. Everyone knew sailors had odd beliefs and superstitions: the Laughing Boy who sailed the Warp in a ship made of secrets, the Stars that Walked in Winter, the 'Lucky Deck' and Saint Spotless. The naval ecclesiasty was generally accepting of some deviation from doctrine, as long as certain, very specific rules were followed. For example, the God-Emperor could have three names, but never four. Any suggestion that he had a xenos bride waiting for him in the Immaterium was punishable by death. And no one, no matter their background or culture, was ever allowed to engage in blood rituals on board the ship.

"Tell us what you know, Mr Stieg," Jak said gently. "We know these beliefs are in your past."

Salazar ostentatiously turned away as Stieg continued. "No priests on a reaving ship, see? No one to say a prayer for your soul, to commend it to the Emperor. A man wants to believe in something more than a foot of adamantium between him and oblivion, so he carves messages into the walls." He traced a finger down one of the runes, and gave a small shudder. "Like the placation of Burn."

"Burn?"

"Lots of names, but we always called him Burn. He was just one of 'em, the ones who guided your ship as and when they chose to. Burn, Thirst, Blight and Scupper. Not just reavers know 'em either. You'll still hear their names muttered on the old Yolenna at times, when the Gellar fields shudder and the shadows lengthen."

"I can see I have some burning to do when we return to the ship," Salazar said, hefting his flamer.

"What's the point of a placation to Burn?" Jak asked, ignoring his confessor.

"Can't gain his favour, though fools think they can. But you can appease him for a time. Carve rivulets into the bulkhead, make your sacrifices, let the blood run down the walls. Keeps Burn at bay. Somebody didn't want him stalking this ship no more."

"Bloody hell," Borjean breathed. Alongside him, Radhati Halksis moaned.

"Please, my Lord," the astropath said. "She is still calling. She knows we are close. It is agony to hear her wail."

"Lots of blood, but no bodies," Jak said, thoughtfully. "No bones."

"What does that mean?" Casanovus asked.

"It means something dragged the corpses away." Casanovus shuddered. Jak gestured at Halksis to continue moving, which the Astropath did eagerly. The group set off again. As they began to walk, a noise behind the bulkheads drew a number of gun sights towards it.

 _Tck-tck-tck._ It was a small, skittering relaxed a little and laughed. "Rats, gentlemen. Rats in the run of the walls." The group gave a nervous laugh, but it was comforting to know that at least something had survived the ten thousand years in the void, and they continued onwards to find the source of their mysterious beacon.

 **=][=**

Maternin lead Dhukov and Al Dessi up seven decks from the launch bay to the bridge. They did not take any elevators; Al Dessi did not trust them, and Dhukov was loath to disturb them unnecessarily. He cossetted over every purity seal they unlocked as if each contained the spirit of a Titan. Maternin began to resent his ostentatious display of machine piety, regarding them as unnecessary and excessive, until they got to the bridge, and her irritation was replaced with reverence.

The bridge was a grand circular space with ornately decorated control and sensor stations arrayed in rings around a central command throne sunk into the floor. Vapour clung to the floor, a fine mist presumably created by some malfunctioning system and the change in pressure as the purity seals were unlocked.

Maternin saw Ravenna Al Dessi looking upwards in awe. The great dome overhead would have given the captain and crew a panoramic view of the void, a view befitting the magnificence of the bridge. Dhukov was on his knees, gently running his metal fingers across the deck and singing canticles of restoration and recovery. His green eyes shone as he looked up at his priests.

"She is returned to us. The _Stallion of the Empire_. Brought back into the embrace of the Omnissiah through us, his emissaries."

"What are you saying, Chief Enginseer?" Al Dessi, spun around. "Would you do me the courtesy of speaking Gothic whilst we are on this endeavour."

Dhukov slowly stood up. "Very well," he said, in gothic this time, but Maternin could sense that he said something to his explorators at the same time, on a frequency that Al Dessi could not hear and Maternin had not been forewarned to tune into. Wishing that she had more sensory augmentations, Maternin strained to pick up the private communication stream.

Al Dessi ordered her armsmen to fan out and secure the bridge, before turning to the Archmagos. "The bridge appears to be in working order, Chief Enginseer. Can we get her operational again?"

"There are rituals, First Officer Al Dessi, certain rituals and procedures that are followed in these situations, where a ship of such age is recovered. Some are known to me, others are not. It may be that we can commune with her spirits and gain a greater sense of her capacity and history."

"Get started then, if you would be so good."

Dhukov gave Al Dessi a long, expressionless glance, and Maternin thought for a moment that the _Enginseer Primaris_ planned to confront the first officer, but Al Dessi had already turned away. She walked to the command throne, and looked down into the recess from which it rose. It was a masterpiece of design, similar to the Mind Impulse Units in the god machines of the Adeptus Mechanicus. When captained, it would sink into its emplacement and fill with synapto-haptic fluid; sitting in the throne a captain would be almost one with her ship. Maternin watched Al Dessi stroke a hand across the glowing platinum plating of one delicately wrought armrest.

"There's no sign of any crew, ma'am." Called out on of the armsmen. They had spread out across the bridge, shining their lumens over every corner. "Someone's drawn some pictures to make your skin crawl, but there's no bodies and no sign of a battle. It's like they all just got up and walked off."

Dhukov and his team had taken their places as various command consoles. The layout was familiar to all of them, with only a handful of differences from modern vessels. They connected to the consoles and a harmony of binaric cant rose from the explorators as they communed with the ancient systems.

"What can you do with her, Chief Enginseer? Can you power her up?" Al Dessi called out. Dhukov did not look up from his console. His metal face glowed green from the light spilling off the pict-screen.

"We do not know the correct rituals to respectfully awaken the primary system spirits," Dhukov said. "But we can release the diagnostic _domovye_ and align the central cogitation matrix."

"Very good. Do so."

Maternin found the frequency of Dhukov's private subsonic binary, but she could not understand what her Enginseer Primaris was saying. It was a hexamathematical cypher, Maternin realised; what he was saying was locked out to her as well as First Officer Al Dessi. She stepped in front of a tertiary console and manually began taking it through rituals of awakening, but as she did so she listened, and began to work on cracking the Archmagos' cypher.

 **=][=**

Radhati Halksis led Jak's team deeper into the superstructure of the ship, a series of long narrow decks that extended along her spine rather than climbing upwards as a battleship's typically would. He picked up pace as he got closer to the source of his psychic beacon, until the elderly astropath was nearly jogging and Borjean needed to put a hand to his shoulder to slow him down.

The armsmen pointed their guns warily at every dark doorway and ladder shaft, but no threats emerged as they progressed, and the only sounds they heard were their own footsteps and the scuttling of vermin behind the bulkheads. Jak could feel his heart pounding in his chest; he forced himself to slow his breathing, to control his excitement as they got closer to the beacon.

Radhati turned to take them down a wide, arched passageway. Its bulkheads were plated with stone friezes of battle, but not the usual images of warfare, Jak realised as he ran his lumen across them. These were images of the wounded and dying being administered to on the battlefield by saints of the narthecium, doctors, chirugeons and battlefield medics. The coiled snakes and skulls of the Caduceus was a repeated symbol across the friezes.

"The officers medical bay," Casanovus suggested, looking at the images, and Jak had to agree. Halksis raised a hand and pointed down the end of the passageway, where twin snakes twined around a single vertical purity seal handle.

"She is behind that door," Jak could not tell if the tone he heard in the astropath's voice was terror or wonder. The group's pace slowed as they reached the med bay entrance, which dwarfed even Jestross.

"Kiletev?" Jak asked, and the explorator moved forward, placing his augmented hand around the handle, microfilaments extending out to enter into the locking mechanism and commune with the spirits of the seal. With a sharp hiss and a groaning exhalation of stale air, the door unsealed.

Halksis rushed forward into the room and Borjean struggled to keep up. Overhead lumens flicked to life, sensors activating automatically after ten thousand years. A sterile, surgical space extended out before them, the bright lights making Jak squint as his eyes adjusted.

"There" Halksis cried out and stumbled towards the large upright box in one corner end of the room. It was eight-foot-tall and solid adamantium, with a plasglass covered hatch inlaid with ivory and gold. The tech priest, Kiletev, burst into binaric prayers at the sight of the thing.

"Bloody hell," said Borjean.

"A stasis pod," murmured Casanovus. Jak walked up to the glass, frosted from the internal cold, but clear enough that he could see the woman behind it, her eyes closed and face projecting the peaceful serenity of stasis-sleep. Jak placed his hand against the plasglass, staring at her face.

"This is your beacon, Radhati?"

"She calls to us, my Lord. We must release her from her prison. Thousands of years of agony, asleep and awake, trapped and screaming out for help."

"She looks happy enough where she is," muttered Stieg.

"We cannot open this pod," Kiletev said hastily. "We do not know the correct prayers and blessings to safely release-"

Jak thumped a large red button recessed into the frame of the hatch, and it turned green. With a hiss of released air, the hatch opened.

"We will have time for machine prayers later, Kiletev," Jak said. "For now, let's remember the Litany of Focus."

The sailors quickly took up positions as a cloud of vapour briefly occluded the sleeping woman. The Litany of Focus was a soldier's prayer, a plea for good aim and quick reflexes. Stieg stood to the side of the hatch, whilst Helmsworth and Farisr took up positions on either side of Jak, weapons pointed into the stasis pod. Borjean kept his gun pointed at Halksis, whose sightless eyes were transfixed.

The vapour cleared, and Jak caught a glimpse of the woman as he eyes began to flutter, her face pained, as if having been woken from a deep sleep. Her hair was long, and so fair as to be almost white. Her dress, soaked from stasis fluid that was draining away into grates beneath her bare feet, clung to her slender body. Her pale skin had been pierced in a dozen places by mechanical tubing that disconnected itself with wet sucking sounds, retreating into the inner walls of the stasis pod.

She opened her eyes, wide as saucers. They were a cloudy, pupil-less white, the blind sight of an astropath. Halksis began to moan, a long, low sound.

"You have come," the woman's voice was barely above a whisper. Halksis continued to moan, the sound getting higher and more insistent.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at?" Borjean poked Halksis with his bolter pistol, but the old man gave no indication that he had even heard him. Jak could feel his guards shifting nervously either side of him.

The blind woman stumbled forward, hands groping out. Jak caught her as she tripped over the lip of the hatch. Her eyes turned up to him. Her face was young, ethereal. Jak found himself drawn to her, as if perhaps it had been his destiny all along "You have come to save us," she said, her voice growing stronger.

"Sir! Something's happening with the AT, and I don't bloody like it," said Borjean. Halksis was swaying and keening, pointing at the woman from the stasis pod. Her hands were gripping Jak's arms, knuckles white. "You must hurry," she said. "This ship contains vast treasures, immeasurable treasures, but an ancient curse will take them all from us if we do not move swiftly."

"We should not have opened this pod," Kiletev said, the explorator seeming to be talking mostly to himself."

"Sir, maybe you should step back from the young lady," Helmsworth said uncertainly.

"The pod was not blessed before we opened it, its functions cannot properly be-"

"You have come to save me and I wish to reward you. Please let me show the secrets-"

"Sir, the AT's really gone right off his-"

"Stieg!" Jak shouted. "The hatch!"

"Aye, Sir!" Stieg called back. Jak gave a short, sharp shove throwing the woman back into the stasis pod. She shrieked with rage and pain as she fell back. Halksis shrieked as well, collapsing to the ground. Stieg kicked the pod hatch, leaning back against the wall and putting his whole weight behind his boot. It swung shut and lights flashed red and green as the pod re-sealed. Kiletev's hands were a blur across the pod's console, ensuring that it was locked. The last thing Jak saw of the woman before the pod filled with steaming vapour clouds was her face contorted in fury and her eyes transforming from white to a midnight black.

Halksis was still screaming, even after Helmsworth helped him to his feet. Losing patience, Borjean knocked the astropath out with the butt of his bolter pistol.

"Alright," Jak panted in the blessed silence that followed. "Anyone who doesn't think that woman was part of some elaborate and sinister trap raise your hand."

In the stunned silence, everyone's hands stayed down.

"Good. We'll work out what to do with her later. I want to make this very clear, in case there are any misconceptions. We are not here to lift ancient curses, or solve mysteries, or rescue suspiciously well-preserved beauties. We're here to steal this ship, loot everything that isn't nailed down and get the hell back home. Does anyone have a problem with that? Good. Then let's keep searching."


	22. Part 3- Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

On the bridge of the _Stallion of the Empire_ , the tech priests had opened up the vox-net and could now hear the captain's voice clearly, after some initial issues with the broadcast frequencies.

"Can you repeat your report, Sir? We're just adjusting bands."

"I said we've encountered the source of Radhati's beacon, Al Dessi. Looks like it was an Astropath kept in semi-stasis. She's secured and I want her left alone for now. We're not here to rescue mysterious maidens."

"Aye, Sir, copy that."

"I want to secure and claim this ship without interruptions from prehistoric and possibly possessed psykers," the captain added, unnecessarily alliterative, Maternin thought.

"Aye, Sir, we're working on providing a full systems report from the ship's cogitation core."

The coded chatter between Dhukov and his Explorators had surged as soon as they'd heard the captain's speaker, but Al Dessi was still blissfully unaware that they were even speaking. Maternin had been unable to crack their cypher and eavesdrop on the conversation for herself, but she devoted a small section of her processing to the task as she worked at her console.

Dhukov turned to Al Dessi and answered her in deferential Gothic. "We are prepared to begin the diagnostic rituals. Dependent on our findings we will awaken and align the cogitation matrix and restore the primary flow of elemental spirits through the power conduits."

"Did you hear that, captain?" Al Dessi asked.

"Loud and clear, XO," came the captain's reply. "Dhukov, prioritise ascertaining the ship's capacity to travel again and accessing her astrogational records. And someone provide me with directions to the captain's cabin. I want to have a poke around."

Maternin provided the directions as Dhukov released his diagnostic _domovye._ They were a propriety code of his Forge World, eager, baying machine spirits that raced through the Stallion's systems and communed with her vital essence, diving deep into the data reservoirs and returning with information on the health and purity of her constituent parts. They also protected the Explorators from any potential machine-curses that might have corrupted the ship. If she was warp-tainted, the _domovye_ would be immediately rendered inert, like canaries down the coal mines of prehistoric Terra, warning their Explorator masters of the lurking poison.

In less than three seconds the first of the _domovye_ began returning. Being so ancient, the ship possessed only a rudimentary Noosphere, but hololithic imagery and data-streams began to light up the bridge: hull temperature fluctuations, reactor bleed, Gellar wheel balance, fuel tolerance, engine readiness, pipe network integrity, gravitational drag factors and more began to flood through. Dhukov assigned the vast accumulation of data to his team, and to Maternin's surprise she was given the hull exterior damage report to assess.

"Proclaim initial findings," Dhukov commanded his team, switching to Gothic for Al Dessi's benefit.

"Re-pressurisation is required across 37.68 percent of the ship, _Enginseer Primaris,"_

"Vitae systems are operating at expected capacity. Air purity is within tolerable parameters in sixty percent of crew spaces, but with minimal preparation this can be extended to upwards of ninety percent."

"Solar sails are unable to full unfurl, and are operating at minimal effectivity. I see significant power fluctuations across the ship, but even so I believe that she would have at least three years of full operating power if we were to only operate from the emergency batteries, and keep the thrusters dormant."

"Plasma reactor operations are on lock down, Archmagos. Thrust tubing data is indicating significant damage to ceramite plating. I'm unable to get clear data from the housing sensors, which would indicate some degree of cracking throughout."

"Extensive damage to plasma conduits. I'm collating a full report, but internal system integrity through the ship is low."

"How low?" Al Dessi asked. The Explorator who had spoken exchanged glances with Dhukov.

"We are in no danger of a sudden, dramatic loss of power or atmosphere." The Chief Enginseer said. "But extensive repairs will be required before she is at a reliable operating capacity."

"What about the weapons systems?"

The Explorator who had been assigned the ship's weapon's batteries made a noise of confusion. "The… the ship is resisting our efforts to scan the weapons system, Archmagos."

"What do you mean resisting?" Snapped Dhukov.

"Most of the ship's spirits were lying dormant, but the broadside and lance spirits are significantly active and agitated. They do not recognise our diagnostic requests and are barring any attempts to command them."

"Is it looking like they are going to fire on the Yolenna again?" Al Dessi asked quickly.

Dhukov quickly scanned the data. "There is activity of the spirits but not of the firing systems themselves. We will monitor the weapons, and if the ship does begin to independently prepare firing solutions the Yolenna Symphony will have time to take evasive precautions. Nevertheless, we will be unable to interrogate why we were fire upon in the first instance."

Maternin was only half listening to the conversation as she worked through the data that she had been presented. Her fingers moved swiftly across the rune-board, sifting through the ancient binary of the ship's data-streams, working her way through the reams of information that the _domovye_ were returning. Soon she was able to piece together a functional image of the ship's exterior, which she threw to a hololith above the command throne.

"Well done, adept," Dhukov said, glancing up at her work. It was the only compliment he had ever paid her, and Maternin willed the mechanical side of her mind to prevent her face from flushing bright red. How long had it been since anyone paid the slightest praise to her knowledge?

"Look," Al Dessi said, pointing at the image of the ship. Maternin turned to see what the first officer was indicating, and gasped when she caught it. She quickly zoomed in on the port side of the ship, the side that had been hidden from the Yolenna's sensors. The hull was completely missing over a section of the Enginarium, shredded open and stripped bare.

"Something has torn away a full plate at the garboard strake," she observed.

"Some type of weapon?" Wondered one of the Explorators.

"No cannon or lance would do damage like that," said Al Dessi. "It's like the hull's been peeled right off."

"There's no corresponding damage on the other side of the ship. Whatever did that didn't go all the way through."

Maternin exchanged a quick glance with Al Dessi, then turned back to the hololith. The two women looked up with concern at the spinning image of the great wound in the guts of the ship. Neither knew quite how to voice the fear it put in them.

 **=][=**

It took a good twenty minutes of sweating, heaving and praying (that last by Kiletev) to open the doors to the captain's staterooms. The doors opened inwards onto a vast, dark space, a ghost of the ship's once grand past. Jak heard Casanovus behind him gasp as they beheld the sight.

The air was thick with fungal spores and the emergency light of the lumen strips shone weakly through the dead foliage that clung to the grills. What has once doubtlessly been a bright and airy space now felt cavernous and echoing. A colonnaded hall led down to the captain's office, passing what appeared to be a dining hall and multiple bedrooms. In the distance, a sunken floor seemed to have once held an interior garden. Over the centuries the trees and foliage had grown vast and eventually fossilised, forming great grey columns, gnarled and half-collapsed. A wide flight of stairs curved upwards, the once gleaming bronze balustrades tarnished and dull. At the top of the stairs, thin bars of purple light streamed through stained glass windows, but the foliage had got there too and covered much of the plasglass.

With the relentless march of time since humanity had abandoned the vessel, the organic matter had colonised much of the staterooms. A carpet of various coloured mosses stuck to the feet and clung to the walls, creating strange patterns. The walls themselves had been textured, layered with chevrons and zig-zags that made repeating patterns through the staterooms. The traditional designs of the Imperium were mixed with bold, geometric shapes that were clearly indicative of the captain's personal taste.

Tracery and bas-reliefs covered the upper sections of the walls, again in a mixture of styles. The stonework had cracked and been covered with plant life, but certain images could still be made out; Cherubs frolicked in piles of treasure, stern-faced sailors raised Imperial flags on new worlds, a dozen wild-looking horses reared dramatically, and nude women cradled the Aquila in poses that made Confessor Salazar scowl and Keeper Casanovus purse his lips thoughtfully.

Whatever furniture and decoration had once existed here had long since collapsed or rotted away, but here and there scattered remnants could be seen. A statue had broken in half when a thick vine had wrapped tight around it, and the woman's head and torso could be seen on the ground, one arm outstretched to a silent void.

One treasure seemed to have survived the demise of its stand, a bust of a screaming skull, wings streaking behind it like the tail of a comet.

An ornament on the ground caught Jak's eye, made of some type of glass that seemed to swirl with internal colours. He knelt down to pick it up, holding it up to light; a screaming skull with wings that streaked behind it like the tail of the comet. Jak felt his spirits lift at the sight of it. Old and ruined this place might be but any single surviving feature was probably worth a small fortune. Relics from an age before the Heresy, a wealth of treasure, his for the taking.

"Tread carefully," he warned his people. "Spread out and search the rooms. Call out if you see anything valuable or any information about the fate of the ship."

A dozen beams of light poked through the gloom at the Yolenna's fanned out through the staterooms. Jak, followed by Casanovus, Kiletev and Borjean, moved down the central hall to the captain's office. It was a spacious room, lined with metal bookshelves and trophy cabinets –to Jak's disappointment, little within them seemed to have survived- and dominated by a moulded plas-steel desk in the centre of the room.

With a grunt, Borjean slung their unconscious Astropath onto the empty desk. He pulled out a hip flask and took a deep swig. At Jak's glance Borjean shrugged, and said, "It became apparent that sobriety was highly over-rated." Jak said nothing. "Sleeping like a baby," Borjean said, with some satisfaction, as he looked down at the Astropath.

"Keep an eye on him." Jak crouched down at the captain's desk, running his hand across the smooth surface. Shallow recesses in the desk gave the impression of drawers, but Jak was unclear how he was supposed to open them.

"Look," said Casanovus, picking up something from the fungal carpet. He was holding some kind of golden locket, the size of a fist. The millennia of disregard did not seem to have left a single mark on the object, and it shone as if it had been polished just yesterday. Carved into the surface, inlaid with white gold, was a horse's head.

"Kiletev," Jak called out, not looking away from the thing. He didn't know what the locket was, but the first word that came to mind was _expensive_. "Kiletev!"

The Explorator did not move quickly to join them, but when he had he gave out a soft exclamation in gothic. "God of Knowledge."

"What is it?" Jak Casanovus, passing the thing to the tech priest. Kiletev moved his hands over it, whispering prayers in binary. His metal thumb pressed against an almost invisibly discreet clasp, and the locket flipped open. Inside the shell were gears, scores of them. Some were large, some were tiny, some were free-floating and hummed with micro-size anti-grav machinery. A dozen displays were visible arrayed around the gears, the most prominent one bearing a familiar ring of numbers.

"It's a chronometer?" Jak asked, almost disappointed. Kiletev made a gesture, as if he was at a loss to explain how far away Jak was from understanding. "Not merely a chronometer. It is an Adastra Celestial Astronomical Grand Complication. There are only a dozen left in the entire galaxy. It can measure true local solar time, special relativistic time dilation, and keep perfect ship's time through the Immaterium. Look here, it has a light sensor, g-force reader, void-fixed astrolabe, and a perfect tourbillon. Set down on any planet and it will tell you the length of the day, timing of sunset and sunrise, seasons, solstice, equinoxes..."

"And it's still working?" Casanovus interrupted.

Kiletev's eyes were shining. "It is working perfectly. And that is not even the most important thing it can do." He flipped the pocket chronometer over the reveal what emerged from its other shell. Dozens of fine sapphire discs rose up, picked out in minute jewels that were bridged with fine silvery threads of light. They moved through a complex dance into and around each other, shifting so that the overall picture created by the shimmering jewels and lines was none other than recognisable star chart.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jak asked, leaning in to stare in wonderment at the glimmering tableau.

"Yes, Sir," Kiletev responded, his eyes equally fixated by the sight. "That's our location."

 **=][=**

On the bridge, Dhukov was struggling with the ship's astrogation logs. "They are corrupted," he said to Al Dessi. "Not hopelessly so, but I cannot begin to piece together a coherent picture without the missing key."

"Key?" Al Dessi asked.

"I need our current location as a reference, and this ship's astrogation operates on a completely different system to the _Yolenna Symphony_. Then I need to identify where in the data-stream the corruption began, which may take weeks of calculations."

Maternin was working to bring the ship's internal auspex systems back online, but she switched her console across the view the astrogation data that the Explorators were working on. She was the only trained lexmechanic on board -it was considered a rather menial occupation by Explorators and artificers generally- and Maternin hoped that she might be able to bring some expert insight to the Archmagos' work.

Dhukov had been right though. Something had affected the ship's astrogational records at some point in the voyage, and the entire log had become a vicious snarl of tangled data spools and broken temporal-spatial coordinates. Without knowing when the corruption has begun, or where they actually were, trying to find the right place to unpick the mess would likely take days.

"Al Dessi, Dhukov," Jak's voice crackled through the vox. "We've got something here. I think it's our coordinates. I'm sending them to you both now."

Without passing comment, Dhukov dutifully put the numbers that came through the vox into the astrogation systems. He put the resulting findings onto the main hololithic display above the Captain's Throne. A familiar galactic map flashed up, with single point far off the northern fringes of the Imperium flashing gold.

"There we are," he said in gothic, and his metallic tones could not convey the hope and relief that they all felt. The knowledge of their place in the galaxy, even though it confirmed all their fears about how far they had been flung from the Imperium, was like a life raft.

Dhukov zoomed into the North-Western quadrant of the galactic map and made another star glow golden. "This is the Lysander system. Evidentially, navigators of the _Stallion of the Empire_ mapped it, but without their uncorrupted astrogation data we will be unable to follow their course back."

Maternin stared at the greater galactic map that floated as a smaller image below the zoomed-in version, and then down at her own console, where countless rows of binary represented the corrupted astrogation data. Presumably the Stallion would have departed from Holy Terra, as part of the Great Crusade, and that would give a useful starting point. The voyage would have moved in a reasonably direct line, there wasn't enough navigational data present in the log for there to have been too much zig-zagging back and forth. The Stallion had clearly been on a voyage of discovery, seeing how far it could press into the far reaches of the galaxy. What would it have encountered on its way?

"Archmagos," Maternin said, not taking her eyes of the galactic map. "Might I suggest that you run a Lovelacian Purification from Chronopoint 109788.994622.473700 in the astrogation data?"

There was a coded burst of piqued binary from one of the Explorators irked by Maternin's audacity in making suggestions to their Archmagos, but Dhukov ignored it, and he too saw what Maternin had seen. He ran the purification routine as she had suggested and soon a bright red line zigzagged through the map, linking their current location to Terra and glowing at each of the points where the ship had attempted to leave the Immaterium and enter real space. Dhukov switched the main holo-image to this new chart of the whole galactic voyage.

"What is that?" Al Dessi said, looking at the new image. "Is that our way home?"

"That's the voyage of this vessel, restored from the point where data became corrupted." Dhukov pointed towards a familiar point in the Segmentum Obscura, one all sailors had learned to fear. "When the ship passed through what we now know of as the Eye of Terror."

 **=][=**

The Eye of Terror.

That at least explained some of the markings, Jak thought. Before the Heresy, ships would have been unprepared for the effects of the Eye's corruption. Clearly some chaos-dammed madness had taken hold. But it didn't explain where the crew had all ended up, nor why the ship had shot at them. And there was another point that didn't make sense.

"How did they escape from the Eye and get so far away before failing?" He asked aloud.

"Dumb luck," Borjean suggested.

"An element of chance may have been involved," Dhukov replied over the vox. "The odds against a successful navigation of the Eye are great but not insurmountable. Numerous of the Archenemy's reaving vessels are able to do so each year. We will know more when we're able to properly scan through the astrogation data. However, our preliminary analysis supports the proposition that we will be able to use this ship's astrogation logs to chart a course back to the Calixis Sector."

"Even without a Navigator?"

"It will take a greater amount of time, but yes. The astrogational calculations of our forebears were far more precise than in this benighted modern age. Short translation distances through the Immaterium using this data will give us a greater than eighty percent chance of successful navigation back to the Lysander system."

In the captain's staterooms. Jak grinned at his relieved looking crew. One problem down, he thought to himself.

He returned to his exploration of the captain's desk. He pressed his hand against one of the recesses and a panel slid aside, revealing a row of neatly coiled wires, connected to some machinery within the desk. A direct connection to the ship from the captain's office, perhaps? It would make sense.

Jak took a coil of the slender wire in his hand; the pin at the end was perfectly shaped to fit the neural jack at his temple. A small smile played across his lips. This was the true testament to the technological mastery of the Imperium; that a man born in this century could communicate with the central cogitation core of a vessel over ten thousand years old. Stagnant, Maternin had called it. Stagnant? No. Enduring.

"I've found a connection to the ship," he announced to the bridge. "I'm going to try it."

"No!" Dhukov's voice came back through his micro-bead immediately. "I cannot allow that, Velasquez. This ship is not a young, tame vessel such as you are used to communing with. It is ancient, and has been separated from contact with minds such as ours for millennia. It will not be safe for the ship, or yourself, to attempt direction connection."

"What do we need to do to make it safe?" Jak asked. "I do not know yet," was the terse reply that he received.

He remained crouched at the desk, working at opening more drawers. Some contained still working machinery, whereas the contents of others seemed to have rotted away entirely. Casanovus joined him, leaning at ease against the desk whilst his captain worked.

"I was sorry about your brother's death," Casanovus said, after some time. Jak sensed in the deliberate casualness of his tone that the Keeper had been building up the nerve to say it. Jak did not speak or acknowledge what Casanovus had said, but continuing exploring the panels and drawers of the desk.

"And I was sorry about your father's," Casanovus added.

"Their deaths will be avenged," Jak said, still not looking up.

"Avenged? I thought your father's murderer had killed himself. Mr No-Koll. No surprise to hear he was a killer, I have to admit. About as odd an individual as I've ever met."

"How so?" Jak asked, turning his face up to look at the Keeper. Casanovus looked tense, but eager to speak.

"He was terrified of you for starters. Terrified that you'd send him back to the _Siren's Wail._ Never stopped babbling about it in the ward room, begging Al Dessi to intervene and keep you on board the Yolenna."

"She never told me that. Why did he care so much?"

"No idea to be honest. The ward room was run by the ex-navy officers, civilians like me and No-Koll tended to be kept out of the really interesting conversations. I tried to strike up a few conversations with him, but he was too jumpy for my liking. No taste in music or wine, and always starting at shadows."

Jak considered his Keeper for a time before responding. "You're not a man I would've expected to find working a privateer ship's Librarium Mr Casanovus. I have heard of your exploits, you know. Casanovus; lover, soldier, adventurer and now a librarian. What brought you aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_?"

"In all truthfulness, I needed to get off Scintilla in a hurry. I'd got involved with a… well I hesitate to call it a death cult, as it was really just a bunch of bored dilettantes flirting with a little bit of heresy. Dress up in old robes and commit blood sacrifices in daddy's kitchen, that kind of thing. But it all got a little out of hand, the Inquisition became involved and I decided it was time to make myself scarce."

"An Inquisition investigation into a noble death cult?"

Casanovus could hear the sudden change in his captain's voice. "Erm…Yes. Just a little diversion in between adventures."

"What were you called? Your little death cult?"

"The… ah, well... the Lords of Shadow. My Lord," he added, scratching the back of his head.

"My sister was a member of the Lords of Shadow." Jak's voice could have kept drinks chilled.

"I… heard. I never met her, I promise you that. We were arranged into cells so each of us only ever knew three or four other members by name. It was all very cloak and dagger, very hush hush. Very childish. But," he shrugged uncomfortably, "there was a woman I was very much enamoured with, and I was willing to do anything for her at the time. I do hope the Inquisition weren't too hard on her."

"I haven't seen my sister since that day," Jak said. "The Inquisition forced her into hiding. My father's career was destroyed."

"Erm, yes."

"And you thought the best hiding place was aboard his ship?" Jak barked a laugh. "You're a madman, Casanovus."

"The idea just came to me. The Inquisition were on my tail, and I got word that your father had struck his deal with the Admiralty to keep the investigation away from the rest of the family. Resign his commission in return for the Letter of Marque and a clean family name. So, this ship was just about the only place I knew the Inquisition wouldn't come looking for me. I'm… I'm sorry I didn't tell you any of this before."

"Well, between you, the assassins, whatever killed my Twistcatcher and… ah-ha!" As Jak hit the right sequence of panels on the desk, a small underslung vault opened with hiss, stasis field shutting off after ten thousand years. Their conversation was cut short.

"That's what I'm looking for," Jak said, as with a flourish he pulled free a large tome, bound in green leather.

"What do you have, Sir?" Asked Borjean, still lounging against the wall as he took swigs from his flask.

"The captain's log." Jak gentled rolled the snoring Radhati onto his side, and placed the tome on the desk. He opened it to the final entry. Casanovus and Borjean read over his shoulder with eagerness, anticipating the last words of a man likely ten thousand years dead. The final entry was short.

 _Nearly half the crew have joined my first mate and the intruders now. They have disabled the ship's defences in the cargo hold and set up a barricade. They must be prevented from carrying out whatever xenos ritual they are preparing for. Whatever madness has possessed them must be excised from my ship, before there are none of us left. We are too far from the Crusade to hope for any assistance. I will lead the assault personally and destroy this infection utterly. May my belief in the Master of Mankind and the righteousness of our cause lend strength to my sword arm._

 **=][=**

Al Dessi was pacing the ship, growing more anxious by the minute. Maternin could tell that she was feeling frustrated with the slow work of the Explorators and her inability to assist.

"Archmagos, surely it would be easier to bring the cogitation core online from the captain's throne. If you cannot identify any warp corruption, just let me connect to the ship directly and-"

"You must be quiet and allow me to do my work." Dhukov cut her off. Al Dessi scowled. The captain's voice came through their vox before the first officer could respond to the Chief Enginseer.

"You there, Al Dessi?"

"Aye, sir. How goes the search of the captain's cabin?"

"We've found the captain's log and I think I'm starting to understand what happened to the crew. The log says that they were caught in a warp storm and dragged into the Eye of Terror. When they came up they were damaged and stranded but they received aid from a species of xenos that the captain refers to as the Ryleth. They were able to communicate and trade with the Ryleth, and when they'd recovered from the storm's effects they attempted to leave the Eye."

"How?" Al Dessi asked.

"The captain doesn't go into the details, but it seems like it took some pretty fancy Navigation work. They barely scraped through, but when they did escape the Eye they discovered that a number of the Ryleth had hidden aboard the ship and refused to leave. Apparently, the captain regarded them as a minor nuisance and didn't go to great lengths to eradicate them, except when they entered into habitable parts of the ship."

"Where were they hiding?"

"Cargo holds, waste reclamation facilities, some of the ship's water reservoirs. Now the log gets a little unclear on this point, but from what happens next it seems like the Ryleth were capable of some type of warp sorcery, and slowly possessed a number of the Stallion's crew. They tried to take over the ship, and disabled her internal defences over a large enough area that the captain was forced to fight a pitched battle across the cargo holds. That's where the log ends. It looks like the crew and the xenos wiped each other out, leaving the ship to the rats."

Al Dessi turned to Maternin. "Do you have the auspex system operating yet, adept? Does that fit with your assessment?"

Maternin swivelled the console around to face the first officer, and narrated aloud for the benefit of her captain. "This image is from the ship's internal vitae sensors. It will take some time to gain access to the pict-sensors, but on this display it has marked life signs for any species known to the ship, larger than a cubit."

"There's thousands," Al Dessi said.

"Yes," Maternin agreed, zooming in to the command decks where they were currently standing. Still the image swarmed with bright yellow runes. "The yellow indicates non-hostile lifeforms, presumably larger-sized vermin: vent-rats, gloomhaunts, maw-flukes and the like. We won't be able to get more specific data until we've fully roused the cogitation core."

"My people are prepared to do this now," the Archmagos said.

"Captain?" Al Dessi asked.

"Aye, make it so," came back Jak's order over the vox.

In the end, there was no great ceremony, no censors or chanting. The Explorators murmured their rituals of waking and the Archmagos prescribed the final rites. "It is done," he said. A moment later the bridge seemed to come to life, as machinery that had been dormant began whirring into operation, and light from a thousand lumens flickered into brightness. Maternin couldn't help but smile, flooded with joy at the ancient and mighty machine being brought slowly ever-closer to the height of its powers.

Suddenly a noise, louder even than a ship's engines firing up, came from beneath them. A great screech, metal on metal but with an underlying, guttural echo. It resonated throughout the ship, and the bulkheads seemed to hum with the sound as it rose up from the decks below through the soles of the explorer's feet. No one spoke for a moment.

"Al Dessi," came the captain's voice tinnily, the vox-net skipping. "What in the Warp was that?" Al Dessi looked at Dhukov. Dhukov looked to his Explorators.

"We've got no idea, Sir. We heard it too."

"Ma'am?" Maternin asked, looking down at her console. The life-sensors were discriminating now, and amongst the yellow runes were a handful of green runes gathered in the bridge and another group in the staterooms. "Green means a human life signal, the ship is recognising us and identifies us as a non-threat."

"And the red?"

"Red? Ohh…" Maternin looked with horror at the rapidly changing display. "Red means a xenos species moving with hostile intent." One by one, yellow runes across the command decks were turning red, converging on the captain's staterooms.

 **=][=**

As soon as Jak received the word from Maternin and Al Dessi he sprung to action. He brought his team together in the central atrium of the staterooms. It was a wider space than they were used to defending, but Jak was happy with they quickly positioned themselves with minimal conversation. Salazar hefted his flamer and took up a flanking position, with Jestross at his side. Jak gestured Casanovus and Kiletev to stay close to him, whilst Borjean held back, covering with his bolter and keeping one eye on the unconscious Radhati Halksis. The armsmen, led by Sergeant Tarl, spread out and took cover, training their guns on the door.

"How close?" Jak asked.

"Twenty metres and closing," came back Maternin's voice through his micro-bead. "I'm counting twenty of them so far. Fifteen metres."

Everyone's eyes were trained on the doors. Jak wondered if he should have had Kiletev try to lock them, but it was too late now.

"Ten metres."

Jak murmured the Litany of Focus under his breath. Salazar started to pray loudly but Tarl held a finger up to his lips. "Silence, I want to hear them coming."

"Five metres."

Jak could feel Casanovus tensing beside him, but the Keeper of the Librarium kept his las-pistol steady, holding it with a firm, two-handed grip. "Remember," Tarl told his men. "Short, controlled bursts."

"They're at the door," Maternin's voice whispered in Jak's ear. He brought his las-carbine up, the stock below his shoulder, eyes along the barrel. Nothing happened at the door. No sound, no movement.

"Captain?" Came Maternin's voice after a moment.

"We've got nothing here, Maternin, are you sure the life-sensors are working?"

"Sir, the sensors say that they're in the room with you. I don't know what's gone wrong." Her voice was in everyone's microbeads. Jak relaxed a little, and could Borjean scowl in confusion. Ghosts in the auspex system, perhaps? He turned to say something to Casanovus, but Borjean, veteran of a thousand battles, cut him off. The old guard's eyes turned to the ceiling just as they heard the sound. _Tck-tck-tck_.

"They're in the vents!" Borjean yelled, swinging his bolter towards the upper deck. Then the first xenos dropped.

White, glistening skin and the muscular, sinuous body of a lizard, about half the size of a man. It dropped directly onto one of the armsmen, six legs crawling and scrabbling at him wildly as he screamed and tried to fling it off. A fourth pair of legs reached up and over from the creature's front shoulders, jointed at reverse angles to the others and ending not in claws but in two wickedly serrated points that stabbed forward with vicious speed. The screaming armsmen was pierced a half dozen times before las-fire from the Yolenna's brought the xenos down.

More of the creatures were dropping from the ceiling now. Some carried scrap-metal melee weapons but most fought with their claws and bladed limbs. One landed directly in front of Jak. He could recognise a head-section, a continuation of the creature's body that whipped back and forwards like a tongue, and was covered in dozens of dark compound eyes around the tip. The mouth was a vertical slit of pulsating maxillae, and that was where Jak aimed his gun, the las-shot cracking and then hissing at it cut through the creature's pale, leathery skin. The xenos kept running towards him until a short from Borjean's bolter blew it apart, tearing through the creature's thorax.

Salazar pointed his flames perpendicular to the Yolenna's las-fire, cutting across the xenos and catching a half dozen of them in his inferno. One, emitting a screeching hiss, dodged the flames and ran towards the confessor, but Jestross intercepted it. He lopped one limb off and stabbed two blades deep into the creature's thorax, lifting it bodily and hurling it at the nearest bulkhead. It flopped lifeless to the ground.

"Hit the central mass!" Tarl yelled, moving back toward covered as he unleashed, short, focused bursts of fire at the falling xenos. One of the creatures snatched a rifle up from a dead armsmen and fired wildly on full-auto, the beam of las-shot scything thought the open space, catching Tarl under the jaw and Salazar in the chest before the power-cell died. The sergeant died instantly, the unlucky shot knocking his head back and going straight through his brain. The confessor was luckier, but went down shrieking, his flamer instantly switching off when it dropped from his hands.

"Pull back!" Jak yelled to his people. They were separated into two main groups, with xenos crawling out from all directions. After their initial furious assault, the creatures seemed to be warier of the las-fire. Firing quick bursts from his carbine, Jak backed towards the more defensible position of the captain's office. Borjean, Helmsworth, Farisr, Kiletev and Casanovus were with him. Jak saw Stieg dragging Salazar's heavy body as he, Jestross and the remaining armsmen retreated into the fossilised forest of the ship's ancient garden.

Farisr and Helmsworth got to the office first and kept up a covering fire from either side of the wide doorway. Casanovus jumped behind the desk as soon as he entered, leaping over the still-unconscious Radhati Halksis, but he soon popped back up, pistol trained at the doorway. He took pot shots at the scrambling xenos, but the smoke from burning fungal matter was clouding the atrium and hiding the creature's movements.

Kiletev was furthest away from the office. Jak watched the tech priest turn to flee only to be hit in the back by a leaping xenos. Metal sparks and haemo-lubricating fluid flung forth from the priest's chest as the barbed limbs speared straight through him. Jak saw the Explorator die in front of him, his armoured torso shredded by the creature's deadly blades.

Borjean fired his bolter again, blowing the creature right off Kiletev's body. Its mangled corpse slammed against the bulkhead and the tech priest collapsed to the deck, the glow gone from his eyes. Jak moved towards him, but Borjean threw an arm across his chest, driving him back towards the captain's office.

Three more xenos charged from the smokes, but were picked off quickly by Jak's guards, as he and Borjean made a rapid retreat. More xenos could be seen in the distance, worming their way into the staterooms.

"Al Dessi, I've think we've encountered the Ryleth. How many of these creatures is the ship showing coming our way?"

"It's detecting more all the time, sir, but currently there are twenty already in the room and twice as many on the way."

"Very good. Mind bringing your people down to give us a hand?"

"On our way, sir."

Standing in the doorway, carbine in one hand, Jak drew his cutlass and thumbed the power field on. It hummed into life and Jak gave a satisfied smile. He could see more xenos emerging from the smoke. They were not attacking mindlessly; with the element of surprise gone, they approached cautiously, using the colonnades as cover. Jak just had to hope that they were cautious enough that they could be scared off with a few more well-placed shots. Because if not, he and his people were about to be very quickly overwhelmed.

 **=][=**

 ** **=][=****

 ** ** **=][=******

 _Authors Note: So anyone who is keeping track of updates has probably noticed that Part 3 is coming on a very erratic schedule. My commitments have changed and I can't release new chapters with the regularity that I would like. I still plan to put out two chapters a month, but beyond that I can't commit to any other kind of schedule, which I apologise for. I don't have any questions at the moment, but I probably will by the time the next chapter comes around… mostly trying to get my head around Astarte physiology- actually, that's my question this time. Does a marine die if he loses his gene-seed? And if not, why do they wait for them to die before harvesting them? The battlefield is an abysmal place to be carefully collecting priceless genetic material!_

 _Thanks to everyone who provided me with advice on Astartes chapters, in particular Jane Warral who did an awesome write up on the Space Sharks, a chapter as cool as their name is terrible. Thanks as always for reading!_


	23. Part 3- Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Clawed, six-legged, hissing xenos scrabbled down the colonnade with frightening speed. Jak Velasquez stood in the doorway to the Captain's Office, flanked on either side by his guards. All three fired at the same time, thin beams of las-fire slicing through the air, lighting the dim passageway and scouring brutal lines down the flesh of the Ryleth attackers. The alien corpses began to pile up, but more followed, seemingly working themselves into a violent frenzy as they threw themselves over the bodies of their fellows.

"Out!" Helmsworth shouted, removing a depleted power cell from his rifle and moving back from the door. Borjean Narn stepped forward seamlessly to take his place. The old man used his bolt pistol carefully, blowing apart one of the xenos with each shot that he took. Helmsworth took another power cell from his belt and slammed it into his rifle.

Jak carried a number of grenades, but was reluctant to use them with so many valuables still strewn about the staterooms. The xenos were attacking in staggered waves in any case, and he wouldn't be able to kill more than a few at once. He wielded his las-carbine one handed, holding his fire focused on the head and mid-sections of each Ryleth that he killed until it dropped to the ground and stopped thrashing about. Then he turned to the next alien. Even with three of them firing at the attackers, Jak could see that it was not going to be enough to hold back the tide.

One of the xenos broke through, its pale, leathery body smoking from burn scars, and tried to launch itself through the doorway. Jak swung his power cutlass up, catching the creature in mid-air and stabbing straight through its thorax. Driven backwards by the alien's momentum, he turned and flung the creature down behind the captain's desk. Jak's Keeper of the Librarium, Casanovus, fired his las-pistol into the alien's mouth section, burning away the pulsing maxillae as the creature emitted a wailing death-shriek. When it was finally silenced, Jak exchanged looks with his Keeper.

"We can't keep them off us much longer." Casanovus said, his eyes wide and panicked. Jak turned back to the door, yelling into his micro-bead.

"We could do with some support here, Al Dessi!"

 **=][=**

Amongst the peaceful hum of the bridge machinery, Maternin watched the battle rage as a clash of coloured runes on her console. The green runes were broken into two groups, in separate parts of the captain's staterooms. As she watched, one green rune flickered and disappeared, overwhelmed by red. The nearby greens regrouped and moved backwards, a fighting retreat.

More red runes were appearing across the command deck and throughout the ship, hundreds of them now recognised by the _Stallion of the Empire_ as hostile xenos lifeforms, the Ryleth. Many of these Ryleth were moving with deadly purpose towards the staterooms. At this point the explorers appeared to be outnumbered at least four to one, and those odds were rapidly increasing in the Ryleths' favour.

First Officer Al Dessi had already taken her armsmen to reinforce the captain. Maternin directed her via the vox network.

"Take the next ladder down and straight, then take the left turn three frames down. Hostiles are at the junction, I count five of them."

"Confirm xenos," Al Dessi came back a minute later, voice steady, breathing heavy. The vox-net burst into las-fire cracks and alien screams. "Passageway clear, we're continuing forward."

"Archmagos, should we not assist our companions?" Maternin asked, turning to the Yolenna's Chief Enginseer. Dhukov did not look up from his console. "Are any of the xenos moving towards us?"

"No, Archmagos."

"Then we will trust in the captain and first officer to lead their armsmen to victory. A greater duty awaits us. This holy vessel has been mightily tested by her years away from the ministrations of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Her care is our highest priority."

There was no word from his Explorators, arrayed around the bridge and focused on their own tasks, but Maternin could sense that they were still communicating on private channels, in a coded binary off-limits to her. Seething with frustration at her Archmagos, Maternin returned to guiding the armsmen of the _Yolenna Symphony_.

 **=][=**

Helmsworth was down, a xenos barb buried deep in his shoulder. Jak's brought his power cutlass down across the alien's midsection and cleaved the creature in two. He knelt down and tore its corpse off of his bodyguard. Helmsworth's carapace armour had deflected at least one of its attacks, but a bladed limb had stabbed straight through the fleshy part of one arm and he was bleeding heavily. Jak dragged his guard away from the doorway and threw the injured man's rifle to Casanovus.

"Cas, you've got the door. Al Dessi, how far away are you?"

Jak heard no reply from his first officer over the vox. He turned his attention to Helmsworth's injury. He didn't dare take the serrated barb out, so he used his cutlass to slice the limb close to the wound. He took a bandage pack from his belt and tried to give it to Helmsworth to hold against his arm but the guard shook his head.

"I'm fine, Captain," Helmsworth said, pulling his side-arm out and checking the ammunition. "Give me a moment and I'll be right back in the action."

Jak didn't argue with him. He stood up and with a glance around the room took the scene in. Casanovus was kneeling between Borjean and Farisr, the three of them desperately holding off the attacking aliens. Radhati Halksis lay prone on the floor, still out cold from the punch Borjean had delivered earlier. The room had no other escape routes, once the doorway was overwhelmed they would all be killed quickly. Fitting, perhaps, if he was going to die that it should be in the Captain's Office. Jak quickly shook the thought away; this was no time for fatalism.

His eyes fell on the captain's desk. A line from the ship's log jagged at his memory. _The ship's defences in the cargo hold._ The ship had been defended once. Perhaps it could be again. And surely if the cargo hold had defences, the captain's personal quarters would as well.

"Al Dessi!" Jak yelled, but there was no reply, the vox network was static. Had it dropped out, or had something worse killed off her reply? They were out of time. Jak leapt behind the captain's desk and grabbed the ship's neural connection line. There was no time for rituals but he gave a quick prayer to the Emperor, a sailor's prayer, short and to the point; _let my luck hold just a little longer_. He pushed the hair back from his forehead and jammed the pin into his neural jack.

The only ship Jak had ever communed with before had been the _Yolenna Symphony_. It had was a powerful vessel, but young and headstrong, a meagre coalition of machine spirits easily slaved to the will of their captain. The Stallion was nothing like that. Opening yourself up to it was like being thrown into the darkest depths of the ocean, sinking into a mind too vast and incomprehensible to even glimpse. And from that darkness emerged great tentacles of the ship's will, wrapping themselves around Jak's mind, teasing apart his thoughts, tearing into him with an abstract yet impatient curiosity.

Jak experienced the ship's thoughts as an overwhelming force. In the darkness of the ship's cogitation core he was a drowning man, barely able to make sense of the questing machine spirits that swirled up from the depths and coalesced into a single question. "WHAT ARE YOU?"

In the darkness of his own mind Jak could sense the constituent parts of the ancient vessel's thought processes. Vitae systems frustrated by the lack of a human crew to preserve, engines burning with the desperate desire to fire, diagnostic systems screaming out for repairs which no human mechwright had ever come to complete in the long, lonely centuries adrift. And amidst it all, Jak sense the machine spirits' responses to the verminous Ryleth that had burrowed in like parasites for generation after generation, a constant clawing in the ship's awareness as they gnawed away at her innards. As Jak was held helpless in the grip of the ship's fathomless mind, he felt the deep wellspring of emotion surging up from the abyss of proto-consciousness.

The _Stallion of the Empire_ was full of rage.

Jak felt himself becoming lost in that rage; he was going to be destroyed by it. Desperately he tried to assert his authority with the ancient vessel, to communicate his will to it, but the Stallion had been too long without a captain. Its internal systems were so braced against threats that its cooperative functions seemed too far gone to even understand, let alone obey, a human mind.

The ship could see every part of his mind, his memories, his nature, his desire, but it could not understand what to do with that information. In the grip of the Stallions power and fury, Jak felt his brain being torn apart. "Work with me!" He screamed silently into the darkness.

"WHAT ARE YOU?" The ship asked again, flaying his very mind as it searched for an answer, but in its dissection of Jak Velasquez it was destroying any hope of finding that answer. "WHAT IS YOUR FUNCTION?"

Through his pain and fear, Jak forced every memory, every personality trait, every scrap of will and identity that he was able to muster into a single word.

"Captain."

And just like that, the horrifying tendrils of machine exploration retreated. A great, formless shape rose from the darkness but it was no beast, no sea monster trying to drown and destroy him. It was a heart, opening up to him and lifting him as it rose. In that moment Jak received the ship's understanding, approval and obedience, again experienced as a single word.

"CAPTAINED."

 **=][=**

Al Dessi fired her carbine at the Ryleth gathered around the stateroom door. There were only a handful, the others having found their way into the room via the vent system. The concentrated fire of her armsmen quickly brought them down before they could turn and attack.

"Open that door!" Al Dessi shouted to one of the armsmen, sweeping her gun around to cover the passageway. "Shyendi, are we clear?" She asked Maternin on the bridge.

"None coming your way ma'am, but at least twenty still moving through the vent system."

"Get a move on, gentleman," Al Dessi said, but it was an unnecessary exhortation. The stateroom doors were thrown open and Al Dessi arrived just in time to see the ship's internal defences awaken.

Concealed housing in the bulkheads and deck plating opened up, revealing hidden turrets that descended from the upper deck, rose from the floor and emerged from the bulkheads. They swivelled with jerky movements and a mechanical whine as they selected their targets.

"Get to cover!" Al Dessi yelled to her armsmen as the turrets opened fire. She caught a glimpse of maybe a dozen Ryleth standing in the open or crawling the walls before she flung herself back to the other side of the doorway. The deafening lighting-clap sounds of multi-lasers opening up was soon joined by the shrieks of dying xenos. Al Dessi kept her head down on the other side of the bulkhead until the riot of noise had finally died off, two minutes later. With a stuttering whine, the multi-lasers wound down their fire.

"Adept Shyendi?" Al Dessi asked, in the sudden quiet. "Can you update our situation?"

"Yes ma'am. The sensors are currently reading no hostiles anywhere on the command deck. One hundred and twenty-seven have been eliminated since our last communication."

Al Dessi rose to her feet and entered the staterooms. Xenos and human corpses lay everywhere, some still thrashing in pain. "Emperor on his throne," she murmured, looking at the carnage. Then louder, "Captain? Stieg?"

From the edges of a ruined forest, the petrified trees shattered and scored by lasfire, Jestross emerged, wiping clean his blades. Behind him came Stieg and Armsman Mistrex, carrying the injured Confessor Salazar between them. Stieg threw up a lazy salute.

"Nick of time, ma'am. We were just about scuppered in there. Did you bring the sawbones?"

"Toraach!" The armsman medic rushed forward, and took the groaning Salazar into his arms, removing pain gels from a belt-pouch and squeezing them out across the confessor's wounds. "Stieg, where's the captain?" Al Dessi asked.

"We're in here!" There was an urgency in Farisr's voice that had Al Dessi racing into the office, skipping over xenos corpses. Borjean and Casanovus were crouched down and Al Dessi shoved them out of the way to see what they were fretting over. It was Velasquez, prone and shuddering, his eyes rolling back into his skull. A single wire connected his temple to the captain's desk. Al Dessi instinctively went to wrench it out, but Borjean caught her wrist.

"Don't," he hissed. "I think it'd kill him." Borjean's face was a crumpled mask of agony, watching helpless as his captain thrashed and whimpered. Al Dessi refused to stand idle so she made sure that Helmsworth's arm was properly bandaged and got a full report from Stieg whilst Borjean made Jak comfortable and waited out his seizures.

"Captain," was the first word Jak said when he started to rouse, his eyes fluttering weakly. "She's got a captain."

"Captain, sir," Borjean was fretting and patting Jak's face, almost in tears. Jak pushed him away and slowly got to his feet, wincing as he did.

"Al Dessi, you're here." The captain sounded vague and unfocused, but ultimately himself. "I couldn't wait for you any longer, sorry. Took matters into my own hands." He gestured vaguely at the cord, gently disconnecting it with a soft gasp. "It's been a while since those turrets have been given permission to let loose like that."

"You connected to the ship? The Chief Enginseer warned against that." Jak waved her off irritably, as if Dhukov's opinion could not have been less relevant.

"It can think, Al Dessi, you have no idea. I mean, not properly think, it's not a machine intelligence but… I can't explain it. I've never seen anything like it." He trailed off for a moment, then started as if suddenly remembering something. He clicked his fingers. "I know why it shot at us! It recognised that we were an Imperial ship, an ally. It _needed_ us to stay and board it. The ship wants us here, Al Dessi, it doesn't understand why but it knows that it needs us. It did the only thing it could to keep us here."

"It needs us?"

"It needs us to save her. It needs us to get her flying again."

 **=][=**

The Explorators listened dispassionately as, over the vox, they heard their captain discuss his violation of the ship's sacred spirits. Maternin studied her Archmagos' face, purposelessly of course, for he betrayed absolutely no expression through his respirator mask. It was a habit that she had retained from her own people, the Genitari, who didn't hide their humanity behind metal shells.

"A pathway has been cleared to the Enginarium," Dhukov declared, apparently deciding to ignore the captain's revelations.

"Should we not wait for orders from the captain, Sir?" Maternin asked. Dhukov's gaze fell on her.

"Our orders were to explore this vessel and ascertain her capacity for recovery. I see no evidence that the captain has changed that order, and we now appear to have an opportunity to safely continue our explorations." He advanced on Maternin. "However, adept, I did not invite your presence on this ship, nor are your skills required in the Enginarium. If you feel your place is alongside those crew members not devoted to the work of the Omnissiah, I will not prevent you from remaining here on the bridge."

Maternin paused for some time, caught in the glowing green gaze of her Archmagos. Despite binary having little room for opacity or innuendo, she felt a weight behind his words. He was offering her a choice -that much was clear- and her decision would have great importance to her future. She looked up at the Chief Enginseer.

"I will come with you, Honoured Archmagos."

"Then let us go."

They departed as a group, bowing in observance to the machine spirits of the bridge as they exited. It was as she bowed her head low that Maternin sensed another burst of private communication between the explorators and suddenly the part of her mind that she had tasked with understanding it produced the answer. Their lazy cypher was no match for a lexmechanic of the Genitari! Within a second their coded messages were clear to her.

"…manifestly a threat to her continued sanctity and safety," one of the explorators was saying, still thinking that Maternin could not understand him.

"Let me deal with the matter," came the reply from Dhukov, in the same code. "What held for the father will be true for the children, and the Velasquez problem will soon be resolved by one method or the other."

Pondering on that ominous statement, Maternin silently followed her compatriots down to the ship's Enginarium.

 **=][=**

Jak paced back and forth in front of his surviving crew, as he processed the mammoth amounts of information that had been so thoroughly dumped into his mind by the ship. He found himself full of rage and fury, but beneath it all a sharp, sudden joy. The rage was the ship's he realised, still swirling about inside him, but the joy of discovery was his alone.

"Anger," he said, and all of his crew were listening intently, even the lightly groaning Salazar. "Why does a ship get angry?"

No one was sure if the question was rhetorical or not. Borjean, flask half raised to his lips asked, "Is that the start of a joke, captain?"

"Borjean, I need you to shut up." Jak spun on the spot and continued pacing. "This ship is old, very, very old but not as old as it should be."

"Sir? You're not making sense," said Al Dessi.

"The Warp!" Jak spun on one foot, stabbing a finger at his first officer.

"The Warp?"

"Yes, don't you see? This ship was dragged into the Warp by the Ryleth. They messed with her Warp Drive and sent her diving deep into the Immaterium. Ten thousand years passed but it was only a thousand for the Stallion. She was thrown about and tormented, and for a thousand years generation after generation of these angry little critters," he pointed with his cutlass at a Ryleth corpse, "were born, lived and died aboard her. They did things to her, Al Dessi. She doesn't understand what, exactly, but they changed her and they assaulted her and they blinded her to the worst of what they were doing. And then she was thrown back out of the Immaterium. Why?"

Jak froze, staring down at his sword. It hummed dangerously; he was flicking the power cell on and off without even seeming to be aware of it.

"Um… Why, sir?" Casanovus asked, when it became apparent that Jak wasn't going to continue speaking. Jak looked up and peered at them, as if he hadn't even realised that they were still present. He shook his head vigorously.

"I don't know! The ship doesn't know. But she is very angry about the whole thing. She shot out our thrusters to ensure that we'd stay and repaid the damage, kick out the invaders, and get her flying again. She's not intelligent, not really, but she understands enough to know that it was her only hope. She wants people aboard her again to deal with all of this chaos. We need to get Dhukov onto this." He swung his head about, looking around the room, half ruined by the battle. "Where is Dhukov?" He asked, suddenly. He touched fingers to his micro-bead.

"Shyendi are you still there?"

"Yes, sir," came back the tinny voice of the tech adept.

"What's your assessment of the xenos threat?"

"There are no longer hostile lifeforms on the scans, but I suspect that means that the majority of the Ryleth or any other hostile xenos forms have retreated from the ship's superstructure, to areas where there are fewer scanners. Large sections of the Enginarium and cargo holds are hidden to our scans still, but the command decks appeared to be free of hostiles when we left the bridge."

"You've left the bridge? Where are you going?"

"We are proceeding towards the Enginarium, Sir."

At a glance from Jak, the Yolennas hoisted their weapons. Three armsmen took Salazar and Halksis between them. Led by their captain, they moved out to join the explorators.

 **=][=**

The entrance to the Enginarium sat below the command decks, a forty-foot-tall set of armoured, sliding doors, stamped with the skull and cog symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Rows of cogitation stations along one wall glowed green with the renewed flow of power, and three of the explorators immediately moved to examine them.

Strange, disturbing hieroglyphs had been carved across the doorway and onto the bulkheads either side. Dhukov gave them only a cursory examination.

"Relik-Mu?"

"How may I assist you Archmagos?" An explorator asked.

"Survey these carvings for me. Category Gamma threat analysis." Relik-Mu stood in front of the largest of the images, ocular attachments extending from the priest's face.

"Preliminary analysis: Psycho-morphological imagery, carved mechanically, staining indicative of human or near-human blood detected within the crevices. Confirmed heretical sources and Chaos influence but Delta level analysis would be required for deeper understanding. Non-negligible risk to organic and non-organic psycho-motor operations and moral heuristics. No meaning can be deciphered from available records. Safety precautions activated, confirm full memory burn and visual cortex scalping, destroying the last thirty seconds of perceptual experience." The explorator staggered back from the wall, somewhat dazed before looking around and seeing Dhukov still standing there.

"How may I assist you Archmagos?" Relik-Mu asked again.

"Nothing. You are doing well." Dhukov turned his attention to the door. Maternin tried not to pay the glyphs any more attention, but it was difficult to ignore them, as if they were staring at her and whispering behind her back.

Dhukov's second-in-command, Damask, came away from one of the stations and broadcast a short burst of data to the group. He bowed to Dhukov.

"The purification of this ship will take decades. We lack sufficient personnel and resources to give the task the attention that it deserves."

"We can make a beginning," Dhukov said. "If it is no more than that, then we must trust in the Omnissiah to guide other knowledge-seekers to our location and finish the task that we have started today."

"As you say, honoured Archmagos. We have pressurised the first section and can begin working forward, section by section. Only Section Eleven will be problematic, where the hull has been stripped away. The other sections should take approximately six hours and thirty-seven minutes to pressurise completely."

"No," answered Dhukov. "Open the doors now. We will deal with the other sections later. I want to see her heart now." Two explorators rushed to the Enginarium's locking mechanisms.

"Dhukov!" A voice echoed from the deck above. Maternin looked up to see the captain descending the ladder in a rush, flanked by his guards. She looked around but her Archmagos had his back to the captain, focused intently on the doors that the explorators had finally coaxed open. With a metallic groan and a shudder that threw up a cloud of dust the entrance to the Enginarium opened up. The Archmagos did not wait before stepping forward and entering.

 **=][=**

Jak hopped down the last couple of steps and raced across the catwalk to enter the Enginarium alongside his Chief Enginseer. The facility stretched off into the distance, dark and forbidding, an enormous vault-like structure, once filled with the roar of machinery and fire, now silent. None of the grandeur and ostentatiousness that characterised the rest of the ship could be seen here, the engineering spaces were marked by the cramped, utilitarian designs characteristic of the inner workings of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Jak and the armsmen joined the explorators on the cramped catwalk overlooking a central work-bay.

"Dhukov-" Jak began.

"Well I'll be damned," Borjean said, looking down over the catwalk. Jak turned to look. On closer inspection, certain features stood out from the maze of piping and machinery that filled the lower level of the Enginarium. Crude, organic-looking structures had been built, strewn haphazardly around the machinery but leading in a loose pathway towards the ship's reactors, disappearing into the depths of the Enginarium.

They were loose assemblies of objects tied together in the shape of mythical beasts, all wings and claws and open, slavering mouths. But it was the material that they were built from which had grabbed Borjean's attention. From the closest structures, it was easy to make out that they had been formed by tying together human bones. Femurs, and rib-cages and skulls could be seen, stripped clean and tied together into hideous effigies.

"Shrines," Casanovus gasped, "Bone shrines." The wounded Salazar groaned. "Emperor preserve us, keep us strong in our faith and will," he called out, still slumped against Armsman Toraach.

"Well," said Jak in the silence that followed. "At least we know where the bodies of the crew ended up."

"These xenos fiends have been building place of worship to… to the Archenemy," Salazar hissed the last part in a breathless whisper, as if the forces of Chaos might be lurking and listening in dark corners of the vault. Jak couldn't deny it, but he decided to ignore that uncomfortable fact for the moment and focus on the practical.

"Well, we can sweep up the bones, but the rest looks in pretty good shape. How long do you think until we can get her flying again Dhukov?"

The Archmagos turned to regard his captain. Perhaps by coincidence, or the confines of the catwalk, the explorators and the crew who had come with Jak were facing each other, huddled behind their respective leaders like two opposing forces.

"Impossible," said Dhukov. The two explorators on either side of him drew closer.

"What? What do you mean?"

"This vessel is ancient, and of a sophistication beyond any I have seen except in the records of Mars. She is hallowed and sacred, and it would be a grave sin against the Omnissiah for her to be roused without the precise rituals and exceptional reverence that such an act would require. Worse, she has been invaded and desecrated by foul xenos intelligence, subjected to the corrupting influences of the Empyrean and left unbridled to develop dangerous levels of autonomy. Without the proper precautions, the chances of a catastrophic collapse of her spiritual nucleus is unacceptably high. It is beyond the capacities of one of my lowly stature to attempt to awaken her."

Jak stared at Dhukov, and for a moment, despite all past experiences with the man, he wondered if the Chief Enginseer was joking with him.

"She's already awake, Dhukov, in case you hadn't noticed, she bloody well shot at us! I've plugged myself into her, seen her machine spirits at work. This ship wants to be flying again."

"You have blasphemed through ignorance, and profaned what should have been a delicate, devout process. Nevertheless, the liturgical requirements of the Adeptus Mechanicus are clear, and I will not compound your transgressions with my own. We can begin to cleanse her, but we can never fly this ship. We must never dishonour her by attempting to."

"What are you blathering about you metal madman?" Jak waved his hands in the air, flapping his fingers at the impassive tech priest. "I'm talking about saving this ship from a lifetime of floating uselessly in the depths of the void. Isn't that what you red robes are supposed to be all about?"

"You understand nothing of our purpose, Velasquez. You understand nothing of what you are asking. To attempt to fully stoke and awaken this ship's machine spirits, not knowing the proper rites, not understanding the timing, the rhythm, the very soul of the required rituals is to invite disaster. Far better that we leave it in peace until more experienced Archmagi can complete the task as it should be done."

"You said yourself that the _Yolenna Symphony_ has been completely disabled. You said that you can never get her flying again. Now you're saying that you won't even _try_ to get this ship flying. What are you even good for as a Chief Enginseer?"

"I am for the good of the ships, Velasquez. Not the master."

"We'll all die out here, you idiot!"

"Then this is a far greater tomb than I had ever dared hope to be worthy of." Dhukov turned away from Jak, and in the blink of eye Jak had his sidearm out and pointed at the back of the Chief Enginseer's head. His other hand was at his own head, fingers pressed to his temple. He could feel the ship's mind still rattling around in his skull, could feel its righteous indignation at the centuries of suffering it had endured.

"Why do you say things that make me have to shoot you, Dhukov?"

 **=][=**

The Archmagos froze. The two explorators on either side of him had closed ranks, crossing their long-handled Omnissian axes in a symbolic defiance of their captain. Maternin found herself shuffling backwards until she could feel the guard-rails of the catwalk against her spine, trying to move herself to a neutral position between the two groups. Silent tension bristled between the explorators and the armsmen as they looked over their leaders' shoulders.

"I would ask you to lower your gun, Velasquez. Shooting me is an irrational act, and does not change the reality of our situation. Let us discuss our alternatives." In gothic, Dhukov sounded cool and conciliatory, but in a coded burst of binary that Maternin knew Jak couldn't hear, Dhukov said, "Damask, terminate Captain Velasquez."

"Sir!" Maternin yelped. Jak swung his head at her cry, but Damask was already raising an arm. He fired the fletchette blaster embedded in his wrist. A dozen tiny darts burst from the gun's muzzle towards Jak. They did not hit the captain, however. Helmsworth had started moving instinctively as soon as Maternin had spoken, and threw himself in front of his captain. The first dart took the guard in the chest, and the others all swarmed in towards the first's homing beacon, peppering Helmsworth so that his body shuddered and jerked in mid-air before collapsing to the ground.

Borjean fired his bolt pistol at Damask before the explorator could get off another shot. The priest froze in surprise as the bolt drove itself into his chest, but only Jestross and the Adeptus Mechanicus had the visual acuity to catch the moment when Damask realised that he was about to die. In an instant the bolt exploded, tearing Damask apart from the inside and raining searing hot shrapnel across his compatriots.

Chaos broke out in the close confines of the catwalk. Maternin saw an explorator swing an axe towards the captain, knocking aside one of his fellow priests. Jak ducked under the swing, pointing his carbine up to fire into the axe-wielder's face. As the explorator reeled back, Jak drove forward with his shoulder, throwing the priest off balance.

Maternin tried to turn away from the chaos, but she was trapped. Gunfire was breaking out. She stumbled backward, watching in horror as an explorator drove his holy axe deep into the thigh of Third Officer Stieg. The Gunnery Master screamed in pain as his leg collapsed underneath him.

Maternin spun around and another explorator was there in front of her, pistol raised. Maternin felt her own pistol in her hand, she couldn't not even recall having un-holstered it. The other part of her brain was functioning now, that part that she couldn't trust, the part that acted only on desperate instinct. The explorator hesitated at the sight of Maternin's red robes, only for a fraction of a second, but it was longer than Maternin did. She fired three times from the hip, hitting with each shot, until the explorator slammed back against the guardrail and momentum toppled him over the edge. He fell to the deck with a metallic clatter.

Others were joining him, throwing themselves over the side of the catwalk to escape the fighting. Maternin saw Dhukov leap from the railing, completely undaunted by the height. He flung himself to the decking and immediately scrambled to his feet, scuttling away into the darkness of the Enginarium, followed by the surviving explorators and hounded by las-fire from the armsmen. The Archmagos fled into the shadows, past the ancient bone shrines, and was gone.

 **=][=**

Jak was one the ground, holding Helmsworth in his arms, the wounded Guardsman gasping helplessly as tiny darts from the Mechanicus gun burrowed through his ribcage and into his lungs.

"You damned fool," Jak groaned. "I told you never to take a hit for me." They had torn off his carapace armour before too many of the darts had bored through, but three had driven into his chest, and the medic, Toraach, was desperately trying to save Helmsworth's life, sweat shining on his pink brow as he worked.

Bodies were strewn about the catwalk. Casanovus was holding a gel pack against the burn from a las-shot that had torn through his neck but helpfully cauterised the wound on the way through. Borjean was tying a tourniquet around the vicious wound in Stieg's leg. Three more armsmen, and three of the explorators looked like they would never get up again.

"Shyendi," Jak said, repeating himself when the little tech adept did not respond. "Shyendi!" She turned to him. She was the only one of the tech priests who had not betrayed him when he had threatened their Archmagos, and it was her last-second warning that had probably saved her life. Her face was ghostly white and as tense as Jak had seen since he first rescued her from the Dark Eldar.

"Maternin," he said, gently, "Is there any way that Dhukov and his people can get to the launch bay without coming back this way?"

"It… is possible, sir, if they climbed the _perpetua demitto_ , but they would need equipment-"

"Mkall, this is Velasquez," Jak was already on the vox. "If any the explorators enter the launch bay I want them detained, you understand? Shoot them if you need to. We've got wounded that we need to evacuate, we're coming back your way just as soon as we can move them."

"Sir," Sergeant Mkall's voice came back, small and worried through the vox. "We're getting a distress call coming through from the _Yolenna Symphony_."

"From the Yolenna?"

"Yes sir, they're asking for you to return immediately, sir. They says fighting's broken out on all decks. Master Sykarin's been shot, sir. Sir, they says it's a mutiny."

 **=][=**

 **=][=**

 **=][=**

 _Author's Note: An important reminder to all Rogue Traders:_ things can always get worse _. My question for this chapter concerns the nature of the Adeptus Mechanicus and their relationship with psykers. Are there any tech priest psykers? How do the Forge Worlds all communicate with each other, and if they're using Astropaths, do they make their own or do they rely on the supply from Terra? As always, sources are appreciated, feel free to pm me or leave it in a review._

 _Oh and to the readers Farisr and Mister Exterminatus, if you're still reading, please have a look at your pm's, I've got a request for you both. Thanks._


	24. Part 3- Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

A naval mutiny is a thing as much of chaos as the Immaterium itself, replete with all the violent confusion, desperate brutality and sudden reversals of fortune as a Warp Storm. Crewmate turns against crewmate in frantic pitched battles played out relentlessly through the warrens of the ship, the violence made all the more frightening in these heightened skirmishes by the uncertainty of just who, exactly, the enemy is. Furtive attempts are made, in the midst of bloody combat, to determine just what side one is fighting on and who precisely one is fighting against. Alliances can be made and broken in a frenzied few minutes of bloodshed, men and women butchering colleagues alongside whom they had worked for years, and a thousand petty grievances against overseers, bullies and shirkers are resolved in steel.

The mutiny on the _Yolenna Symphony_ began on the bridge, where, on orders beamed across from the _Stallion of the Empire_ by Archmagos Dhukov, Magos Ikay took out his approved officers' side-arm and calmly, in full view of the bridge crew, shot Second Officer and Master at Arms Garian Sykarin in the head. That unmistakable act of ruthless sedition soon spread across the entirety of the ship, with a thousand spot fires of violence breaking out. But the true battle of the mutiny was for control of only a few vital sections of the Yolenna; the bridge, of course, was integral, not least because most of the ship's senior officers were there, likely leaders of one side or the other, but Jak had lived through a mutiny once before as a young lieutenant, and he knew that two of the most critical tasks in the initial stages were the securing of the ship's armoury and of the grog holds. Whoever controlled the ship's collection of small arms and Sentinels would have the crew's attention and whoever controlled the alcohol had their hearts.

Within half an hour of receiving the distress call, Jak was back on deck and he wasted no time in taking command and rallying the defence. But he would have been too late if not for one small factor, one of those mercurial quirks of fate on which wars are won or lost. When the tech priests rose up and the dissatisfied, exhausted, frightened crew joined in the violence, three separate factions quickly formed. One was loyal to their captain, and the other loyal to the Enginseer Primaris, but there was a third who remained still attached to the late Admiral Velasquez. And, whilst one group cried the name Dhukov to draw their allies to them, two distinct groups ran through the ship calling "Velasquez! Velasquez!", which created a great deal of confusion and in one case led to two parties of Gun Deck 15 crewmates fighting side by side for a valiant hour before realising that they were bitter enemies and tearing each other apart. This confusion, more than anything else, gave Jak the time he needed to wrest back control of his ship.

There were heroes, of course, individuals whose clear thinking and bravery stood out amongst the madness. Jeena Beru, the Yolenna's Master, was one such hero, taking command of the loyalists on the bridge and holding out against Ikay's mutineers when Sykarin was shot in front of her. Borjean Narn was another; on Jak's orders he took a Sentinel squad and held off opportunistic raids on the grog hold for two hours, getting steadily more inebriated -although still unerringly accurate- all the while. Armsman Sergeant Shadlo, although never officially recognised for his efforts, quietly saved the lives of over a thousand crew when he single-handedly over-rode an attempt by mutineer tech priests to depressurise the entirety of Deck 47.

But, despite the months of resentment and frustration that might lead up to them, and the vital chaos of the mutinies themselves, the battle is often over almost as quickly as it began. One way or the other, one side has to wrest control of the ship before it is utterly consumed by the fighting, and demand a surrender before there are no crew left to continue the voyage.

=][=

The Yolenna's bridge had multiple entrances, all controlled via the same security network, and it took Maternin only a moment to identity that the captain's entrance -which ran straight out onto the cupola- was emergency sealed. Instead Jak led his people through the lower portside entrance, finding Jeena Beru and two dozen officers there pinned down behind the first tier of cogitation consoles. Ikay and his mutineers had control of the starboard tiers. Between the two sides, the bridge lay littered with corpses and the smoking ruins of shot-out operation stations.

Beru gave them a quick summary of the situation through gritted teeth, as a junior technician tried to tend to an arm burned and broken by las-fire.

"Bastards have us in a stand-off sir. We shoot them if they try to get up along the higher bays and they do the same to us, so we're both stuck on the lower levels. Jate tried to hold the centre and keep the coms open for as long as possible, but she and her people had to fall back too. She's aft of us now and holding firm."

"What's your ammunition situation?" Jak asked.

"Power cells on either side don't have much love left in them, so it'll be the melee for us soon enough, wrench against cutlass and see who comes up smiling at the end. We outnumbered them in the beginning, but they got the jump on us and I don't know which way it'll go now."

"Are you able to keep going?" Jak nodded towards her injury.

"Well enough," she shook her head. "I'm daft and slow, but they only winged me," she winced as the technician tugged at the bandage. "You never forget the burning smell," she said jerking her head towards her las-wound, "but I forgot how much the damned things kicked. Sykarin's on the deck over there. He was alive, last time I poked my head around, but he's lost a lot of blood and we haven't been able to pull him out of the action."

Jak slid around to the far side of the row of cogitators, peering cautiously around the edge. He saw the figure in the centre of the bridge, small and contorted, lying in a pool of blood. Jak's chest tightened and his heart threatened to kick out of his ribcage at the sight of the man he'd thought of as a mentor, life ebbing out of him. He forced himself to push Sykarin out of his mind, to focus on the whole ship, not the survival of one man, but it was impossible. He needed to act, needed to end this as quickly as possible. His gaze turned up to the cupola, and the empty captain's throne that loomed over the carnage.

"No one has the high ground," he said to Beru. "No one has the cup."

"No, sir, we haven't been able to get up the stairs without getting hit. Maxillus was able to get the doors sealed but they pinned him down too. The bastards are still trying to get through the door, and they'll succeed sooner or later." Once they did, she didn't need to add, it would be the end for the defenders of the Yolenna.

Jak paused, taking in the impromptu battlefield, trying to find calm amongst the chaos to consider his options. His late father had drilled him in bridge sieges; they were always the last line in a desperate defence, but sometimes you needed to be ready to go to that last line. The open space in the centre of the bridge around the hololith display was a no-man's land, so was the helm. The cupola would give them the best advantage, if it could be taken. From that high vantage ascendancy could be gained.

"Al Dessi, you and I will move towards the helm. Jestross is going to take half your people and get round via the helm." Jak turned towards his xenos companion. "Go hard and don't stop for anything, once you're in the open come at them from the other side like a storm. Like a storm you understand? Swing around and hit them with knives, sabres, everything that you've got. Al Dessi and I will come in from the cupola guns blazing and between us try to pincher them."

"Where do you need me, sir?" Beru asked, lifting her pistol in her good hand.

"Can you get to Jate? Have her people cover us whilst we get up to the throne."

"Aye," a steely gleam of determination appeared in the old sailor's eyes, "I'll get the word to her." Keeping her injured arm, gingerly above the deck, she sidled sideways, slipping past the cover of the cogitation consoles and scurrying forwards.

Las-fire cracked away from the far side of the bridge and Jak saw the bright beams strafe about Beru. She cried out as a shot hit her in the foot, freezing in place as her leg collapsed beneath her. Jak watched helpless as the next shot took her through the head, shattering her skull. Beru dropped lifeless to the deck.

There was no time to react, no time for shock or mourning. Jak turned back to the group with new instructions, but Al Dessi cut him.

"Captain," she pointed upwards.

A doorway opened up at the cupola entrance to the bridge, and a dozen tech priests filed through at a jog. They wore their red uniforms as loose trousers, and went naked from the waist up, men and women both. Their skin bulged with synth-muscles and writhing blue electoo circuitry shimmered beneath their skin. Jak recognised them as electro-priests, one of the more easily identifiable sects of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They were led by Joramon Lattemba, the Yolenna Symphony's Keeper of the Altar Tranductus. Chanting their sonorous battle hymns, the electro-priests took up places along the edge of the cupola, legs akimbo and arms outstretched.

Electro-static gauntlets ringed their wrists, attached to thick cabling that ran to the power-storage units worn on their backs. Conductors wreathed their skulls like flickering halos. The electro-priests did not need to bring weapons onto the bridge; they were the weapons, their circuitry-riddled bodies capable of generating vast amounts of energy, which they channelled through their gauntlets. Usually they did this in the cause of stabilising the ship's power conduits, but they looked ready to put their abilities to more deadly purpose.

"Damnation!" Jak yelled. "Pull back!"

"The power moves!" Lattemba cried out in a voice deep as thunder. Lighting flashed from the hands of the electro-priests. It lashed like a thousand whips, crackling and shattering into jagged knives of light that drove deep into the starboard side cogitator arrays. Binaric screams rang out as the lighting jumped from one tech priest to the next, Ikay's people caught completely unguarded by this unexpected attack. Jak saw bodies bounce across the deck as if the lightning were a puppeteer's strings, before coming to a smoking standstill.

With a sharp gesture of his gloved hand, Lattemba brought the attack to a halt. He turned towards Jak and raised both gauntleted fists above his head. "The Corpuscarii stand with Captain Velasquez!" He boomed, and his electro-priests roared their approval, in one swift, synchronised _"HO!"_

It took Jak a few moments to realise what had happened. He stood, cautiously at first, raising his head above cover before straightening to his full height when no las-fire came his way. He walked towards Lattemba, whose eyes had not left him since entering the bridge. Before either could speak, a sound came from the ranks of the defeated tech priest

Magos Ikay, former chief officer of the Yolenna's sensor crews, was crawling free from the ruins of the cogitators on hands and knees. His hood had fallen free from his head, revealing an ovoid skull that appeared to be entirely encased in metal, deeply engraved to give the impression of sharp cheekbones curving down to a narrow, pointed chin. Lattemba shot out a hand towards the Magos, but Jak called out.

"No! I want him alive." Lattemba nodded, and with a jerk of his head, sent two of his electro-priests to collect the Magos. Ikay was dragged forth, his singed and smoking robes falling away from him in pieces. From what Jak could see, the body beneath looked slender, angular and horrifically exposed, like a bird with all its feathers plucked.

Ikay head was slumped, but the wide ocular lenses on his metal skull still glowed with consciousness. As he slowly brought critical systems back into operation, his head lifted and his vision focused. He saw the tip of the Velasquez Cutlass humming an inch from his face.

"Contact your people across the ship, Ikay. Announce your surrender. Call off this damn fool mutiny before you get them all killed."

Ikay's head tilted, as he was listening to something. "It is done," he said finally. Jak glanced at Lattemba, who nodded. "He has surrendered."

"Where's Dhukov?" Al Dessi was at Jak's back, he half turned to catch the full force of the indignant glare that she fixed on Ikay. "Did he order this? Is he leading you?"

"The Archmagos gave us instructions to be prepared for the possibility that the captain would need to be forcibly removed from power." there was no emotion in Ikay's voice. He sounded as if we announcing a routine report on sensor maintenance. Jak resisted the urge to throttle him with his bare hands. "He gave the order to revolt from the _Stallion of the Empire_. He is no longer leading us."

"Why not?"

"Because the Archmagos died sixteen minutes ago."

=][=

With so much confusion and so many combatants, it took some time for Ikay's surrender to filter through the ship and for order to be restored. There were many who were not acting under Ikay's instruction and who had either taken the opportunity to settle their own scores or become caught up in the madness; regardless, they needed to be brought to heel as well. Jak left Al Dessi in charge of coordinating the recovery efforts across the ship, whilst he had Lattemba's electro-priests drag Ikay to the privacy of the conference room for interrogation. Jestross and Maternin joined them, taking seats at either side of Ikay like eager spectators.

"Archmagos Dhukov gave the Magi orders before he left with you for the _Stallion of the Empire_. 'Prepare for bloodshed', he told us. He did not believe that you could be trusted with such holy power as the treasure-galleon represented."

"Dhukov has been plotting against you since the beginning," Maternin said, directing a look of disdain at Magos Ikay. Jak had not invited her in, but had not discouraged her presence either. "He did not care for the ship, only for his own power."

"That is factually incorrect," Ikay replied calmly. "All he did was for the good of the ship."

"What plotting?" Jak asked Maternin.

"I heard him on the _Stallion of the Empire_ , discussing having 'resolved' the Velasquez problem, just prior to your arrival at the Enginarium."

Jak turned back to Ikay. "Was Dhukov behind the assassination of my father?"

"No," Ikay said immediately. "But he did build the weapon used in the assassination. The gun that was discovered by the servitor was his work." He spoke as if this discovery was common knowledge and Maternin was nodding at his words. Feeling disinclined to reveal his ignorance, Jak pressed on.

"On whose instructions did he build it?"

"At the request of the Keeper of the Purse, Rollyk No-Koll. No-Koll asked for a gun that would be untraceable, undetectable and simple to disassemble and discard, so that it would not be found."

"Except that it _was_ found."

"Only due to a remarkable set of co-occurring variances in predicted patterns of behaviour that the Archmagos could not have been expected to foresee." To Jak's great surprise, Ikay seemed eager to talk about this treachery, almost desperate to ensure Dhukov's actions were properly understood and appreciated. "A clumsy attempt at psychological punishment by a Lachrimallus, Timmon 775, against Adept Shyendi," here Ikay gave the barest of nods towards Maternin, "led to one of the semi-self-aware servitors designated as the Merry Servants taking the initiative to scour a plasma vent waste for valuable materials. The servitor's discovery was revealed publicly, at which point the Archmagos had little choice but to hand over the gun to First Officer Al Dessi. The Lachrimallus responsible was severely chastised, of course, and reduced in rank, but ultimately Dhukov regarded the actual risk of discovery to be minimal. Only a select few of his most trusted Magi knew that he himself had built the weapon."

"At No-Koll's request." Jak repeated.

"Yes, but again, it was not the Keeper of the Purse who was responsible for the assassination of your father. He was acting on another's orders when he requested the weapon."

"How can you be so confident"

"I am not augmented for psychological profiling but, even so, it was quite apparent from his manner and words that No-Koll did not know what the gun was for, and was frightened to ask questions of the person who had sent him. Furthermore, he was assisting with a stocktake in the Enginarium when the assassination occurred."

Jak sat back in his seat, letting himself sprawl a little, keeping his gaze fixed on Ikay as he processed everything that he had just learned. He let the silence work for him, dragging it out until even the emotion-deficient Magos felt the urge to fill it up.

"I am telling the truth. I have no reason to lie to you. I understand that these are close to the last words I will ever speak. The punishment for mutiny is clear and logically sound. But I would not have the name of my Archmagos besmirched after his death. He acted for the good of the ship. He always acted for the good of the ship. Yes, it was indiscrete to build the weapon, but he had no way of knowing that it was intended for the assassination of Admiral Velasquez."

"How are you so sure that Dhukov is dead? You've lost contact with him, sure, but why say that he is dead?"

"His last message leaves little room for uncertainty."

"Last message?"

Ikay's head dropped again, the glow momentarily dimming in his eyes, and when his head lifted this time, the voice of Archmagos Dhukov came from him, distant and echoing like a vox-message from a great cavern. He was speaking in binary, and Maternin translated along with the recording.

"He says 'We are not alone. There is something in the Enginarium with us." Jak could hear footsteps, the binaric muttering of Explorators and harsh rasp of respirators. Then Dhukov, speaking again. "If you do not receive instructions from me… what is that? Breath of the Machine God!"

At this point in the recording a sound emanated from Ikay, a sound that Jak was never able to accurately describe in years to come, no matter how hard he tried. "Start with the scream of an eagle", he would say, "so high pitched that you think your ears are going to bleed and then combine it with the thunder of a rocket being launched. And then underneath that you have to add in this much deeper roar that feels like its reverberating through your very soul, and then somewhere in amongst it all, so quiet its almost not there but at the same time completely inescapable, the piteous screams of a strong man who can't take his suffering anymore. That's what it sounded like." But it still didn't do the noise justice.

Jestross gave a startled hiss at the noise, and Lattemba made a noise that sounded very much like a binaric curse. Maternin paled, but did not stop her translating. "Flee! Abomination of construction! Flee! Flee!" At this point in the recording it was difficult to hear Dhukov's voice over the general clamour of running, panicking and the roar of what seemed to be flames. But then Dhukov came through more clearly, as if he were directing his last words as carefully as possible to his people still on the Yolenna Symphony. "Do not return," Maternin translated. "Hear me, my Magi. Whatever else happens, you must not come back to this ship. _The Stallion of the Empire_ is home to hell-" The recording broke off at that very last word, dissolving into metallic screams and then static.

There was silence for some time. Dhukov's last words seemed to hang over everyone in the room like a heavy blanket. Jak did not know what to make of it. But he did know one thing; with the Yolenna's thrusters destroyed, everyone's survival was dependent on the _Stallion of the Empire_.

"Jestross," he said, at last, "kindly fetch Borjean and head to the armoury. We're going to need our biggest guns."

=][=

There was a great deal to do in the aftermath of the mutiny. The majority of the armsmen had remained loyal to Jak and were commanded by Ravenna Al Dessi, whilst their Master at Arms was rushed to the medicae deck. Makeshift brigs were set up in the cargo holds –at this stage in the voyage there was plenty of room- for the mutineers to be held in until decisions could be made about their futures. Casualties were high, but security came first, and those who were still able to walk or be carried were herded with the rest.

Despite their shock and fatigue, the armsmen managed the situation with grim professionalism. This was why Imperial ships carried so many crew who were more soldier than sailor; they drilled regularly to handle large scale violence, whether it be mutiny, riot or warp madness. The key was to break the enormous task of restoring order into manageable pieces. The mutineers were separated, decks intermingled, so that no major complements of disloyal ship's crew were kept together. The tech priests, in particular, were spread out across the various brigs, and kept under close watch. Blankets and food were quickly handed out; Al Dessi was wise enough to know just how much of the residual tension could be settled with blankets and a warm meal.

The severely injured, along with any children, were brought out and held separately. Within the various holds, family men and women were chosen to organise their fellow mutineers. Al Dessi knew that sailors with children were the calmest heads after the storm passed, and made more reliable by the fact that their children were being held elsewhere. Even men with legitimate and serious grievances become suddenly compliant when they hear that the captain has their son or daughter secured away, and that they have his personal assurance of their safety just so long as everything continues to go smoothly.

From there, the damage needed to be assessed and emergency repairs needed to be conducted. Vitae systems and fires were prioritised, the Infernus Master working tirelessly to ensure that no critical failures befell the already sorely wounded ship. Essential personnel were drawn out from the mutineers and quietly put back to work as quickly as possible, once their assurances of loyalty had been obtained. And once all that had been taken care of, the task of reprisals began.

Jak stood on the flight deck, a vast, unused space now with so many of the Yolenna's squadrons lost. He looked at the body of Magos Ikay, crumpled on the deck. Electrical smoke rose from the ruin of the tech priest's skull. Metal fragments and sparking wires spilled across the deck. Had there been any part of the little Magos that retained its humanity, Jak wondered to himself.

After his impassioned defence of Archmagos Dhukov, Ikay had refused to name any of his other co-conspirators. However, the Corpuscarii, Lattemba's people, had helped to identify the ringleaders of the mutiny. No doubt that had settled a few old scores along the way, but Jak didn't have time for trials to separate out the guilty from the innocent. Any officer who was identified as a leader by three witnesses had been brought to the flight deck for summary execution.

His father had preferred venting, as outlined in Naval Articles of War, as the punishment for traitor and insubordination –he had always been threatening to throw Jak out of an airlock- and had once told his son that the punishment gave individuals the ideal period of time to reflect on their crimes and beg for the Emperor's forgiveness as they watched the slow countdown until the airlocks opened. But Jak had no time for that today, and he settled for a servitor wielding a naval stub-gun, with himself and Al Dessi standing witness to the last moments of the ringleaders.

Some of those brought before Jak shocked him. After Magos Ikay, the next man to be executed was Kel Gunnerin, the Master of the Presido. The prim, neat officer had picked up a nasty bruise to the face and his normally immaculately combed hair stuck up like he'd been electrocuted. He shot a look of pure repugnance at Jak as he knelt to accept his fate.

"Your father was a great man," he spat. "Better I should have died with him. Nothing but disaster and disgrace has come from serving you."

Jak stood ramrod straight as the servitor stepped forward, and the report of the stub-gun echoed across the empty deck. He was too tired, too suddenly lonely and bleak, to have any response to Gunnerin, nor any of the others who hurled abuse and condemned his captaincy in their last words. He felt a distancing within himself, as if the part of him that was watching the executions was withdrawing from other, older aspects of him. Some connective tissue was being sheared away; perhaps it was unnecessary, a childishness or naivety that he'd do well to leave behind, but just as possible was that something essential was being destroyed, leaving a hardened, calcified remnant that bridged the gap between his selves. He had felt the process start when he had allowed the _Vonaznaniya-17.8_ to be boarded by the Kabalite Eldar, and felt it again when he had ordered the sacrifice of the _Portentia._ But it had not been completely diminished by those events, still there was something in him to be lost, and he could feel himself losing it now.

After the work was done Jak walked out of sight behind the flight deck fire bunker and vomited heavily onto the deck. The faces of the executed swam in his vision. No doubt at some later point the perfect retort to their condemnation would occur to him. But for now, he pushed down the feeling of emptiness within him and focused on the living, and the next task in ensuring that they stayed alive.

=][=

He found Lattemba with Maternin in the conference room, both pouring over diagnostic reports that Maternin had brought back from the _Stallion of the Empire_. Lattemba was clearly blind –he wore a grey blindfold across his ruined eyes- but Maternin had hastily explained to Jak that the Corpuscarii electro-priests could sense magnetic fields and read data slates via the Noosphere. Jak had not queried the ability, and now he threw himself down in a chair across from the two to hear their report.

"Well? What do you think? Dhukov said that getting her flying would be impossible."

"He lied!" Maternin said hotly, her cheeks colouring with anger at the Archmagos. But Jak was focused on Lattemba's reaction. He led the Corpuscarii, who had remained loyal in the face of Dhukov's treachery. He was one of the few senior tech priests not implicated in the mutiny.

"Was he lying?" Jak asked Lattemba. The electro-priest took some time before answering. When he did, Jak was struck by how resonant and surprisingly soothing Lattemba's voice was, a striking counterpoint to the mechanical tonelessness of most tech priests.

"I do not believe that he was lying," Lattemba said. Maternin looked ready to speak again, but Jak silenced her with a glance. "Nor, however, do I believe he was correct in his assessment. It is, perhaps, best understood as a matter of philosophy, captain. If you will permit me to explain?"

"Go ahead."

"The Archmagos and the majority of his people were Forge-born. Their home was the Iron Realms, where the doctrines of Mars are followed to the letter. They are exquisite craftsmen and women, artisans and warsmiths, but they are bound by their notions of the Machine God as perfect and unsullied. They see the Omnissiah's touch in the sword hot off the anvil, the bowl fresh from the kiln, the warhound taking its first steps from the Titanworks. They idealise the machine new from the forge, her machine spirit untarnished by service, unscarred by repair."

"Conservatives," Jak said, remembering the word that Chirugeon Erasmus Borelyle had used to describe Dhukov. Lattemba paused for a moment to consider, before nodding.

"Indeed, although not perhaps in the way that you might be thinking. He could only conceive of the _Stallion of the Empire_ as flying if the rituals of awakening and repair could be conducted perfectly, as they would be on Mars. I can believe that Dhukov genuinely wanted to do what he believed was right, and leave the ship in peace until the rituals of awakening could be conducted as he felt they should be. I will not argue his loyalty, nor his love for you. But in this, his worst crime, I believe he genuinely felt that he served a higher calling, for what little that is worth. It was his expression of devotion to the Machine God to declare the task impossible."

"It sounds like you have a different philosophy."

Lattemba's gaze was fixed at some point just over Jak's shoulder. His skin, already dark except where it rippled with electoo circuitry, was stained a midnight black beneath his ruined eye sockets. So potent was the power running through the electro-priests that their eyes burst and melted early into their training, burning the skin as they dribbled away. 'The Omnissiah's Tears' Maternin had called it. He reminded Jak of Radhati Halksis in a way, both men whose single-minded devotion had cost them their eyesight and blessed them with almost incomprehensible gifts.

"I was not born in the Iron Realms," Lattemba offered as an answer, "I was not born on a Forge world dedicated to creation. I have lived my whole life on board ships, as you have. I know that in the void, as in war, there are times when the machine must be kept working by whatever means necessary. This is not blasphemy, nor is it compromise. I will not waste your time with theological tracts on the Holy Trinity of the Adeptus Mechanicus; suffice to say that the Corpusacrii believe above all things in the Motive Force. _The power moves_ , captain, and the spirit must move as well. The machine in action is the truest expression of the will of the Machine God. Only the undrawn blade is never blunted."

Maternin was nodding along, as if everything Lattemba was saying made perfect sense to her, but Jak was only confused.

"I need a straight answer, Mr Lattemba. The Yolenna is dead in the void, our only hope lies with the Stallion. Can we get her flying again?"

"We _must_ get her flying again, captain. It would be sacrilege not to try. The Archmagos believed that the ship's spirit was too damaged and delicate, but I know that only in flight is the true spirit revealed."

"So, it can be done?"

"It may prove to be impossible, I cannot deny that. We undoubtedly lack the resources to make the task easy. All I can say is that nothing is certain until we try, and there is nothing in these diagnostic reports that would deter me from trying."

Felling a great weight lifting off his shoulder –one of only many, but certainly one of the heaviest- Jak leant back in his seat, paused for a moment, and smiled.

"Very good then."

=][=

Jak's next destination was the medicae vault, and he slipped in un-noticed amid the air of frantic yet strangely calming professionalism that always took over the vault post-battle. There were no sides for the medicae staff, they treated loyalist and mutineer alike, berating both equally for their stupidity, carelessness and wasting of medical resources between tireless bouts of life-saving surgery and emergency care.

Only one stopped to greet the captain as he entered, Merry Servant #13, who without warning lurched forward to shine a light in Jak's eyes.

"Patient rank: Captain, priority access medical care. Preliminary symptom analysis: bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, concern for possible fatigue/shock/void fever/. Patient will sit down and await further medical care."

Jak gently shoved the servitor off. "Thank you #13, but I'm fine all the same. Just point me to where Borelyle is."

He followed the servitor's directions, and found the Chief Chirugeon in a side-cabin, throwing a severed leg onto a large pile of bloodied limbs stacked in the centre of the room. Erasmus Borelyle grunted with satisfaction as he looked at the gruesome collection.

"That's the last of them. Three hundred and seventy amputations so far, and all of them will live," he said with deserved satisfaction. He frowned at he turned to his captain. "No prosthetics left though, so they'll have to do with peg legs, and Emperor knows what state their limbs will be in by the time we have the resources to do proper regrafting."

"I've known plenty a good sailor got around just fine on a peg," Jak said. "What do you do with the limb pile?"

"The Magos Biologis will take them and the organic recylcers will no doubt put them to good use. I will not ask for what, as I'm sure I don't want to know, but I can only hope as plant food."

There was a pregnant pause. "The Magos Biologis is dead," Jak said. Erasmus went quiet, and his sloping shoulders seemed to slump just a little more. Jak did not want to ask if he'd known the Magos well.

"Ah, well, I'm sure someone will be taking on his duties," Borelyle said finally, still not meeting his captain's gaze. "The voyage continues. What can I do for you, sir?"

"I wanted to see how the medicae staff were doing.'

"Do you want to hear that we're stretched to breaking point, or that we're going to survive. Both are true," there was a churlishness in Borelyle's voice suddenly, different even from his usual cynicism. Jak wondered if only his role as ship's physician had been keeping the old sailor from choosing a side in the mutiny. Before that dark thought could take roots, however, Borelyle continued. "We're getting along, sir. We'll get the job done, have no fear. Those who can be saved will be saved."

Jak remembered something that his father had once told him. "When the chirugeons stop complaining about every last scrape on a sailor and tells you that things are fine, that's when you need to start worrying."

"I'd like to see some of the patients," he said to Borelyle. The chirugeon nodded, "By all means captain, I certainly have nothing better to be doing. This way, please."

Whether by accident or design, the path of makeshift beds leading to the officer's medical cabins had been lined with loyalists, kept separate from the wards holding mutineers. Jak passed sailors in various states of injury and distress, but those who would see and recognise him smiled as their captain passed. Some reached out to touch his hand, or cry out blessings, others made the sign of the Aquila as he passed. He hadn't seen the Imperial salute since he'd left the navy. Funny, how some sailors wouldn't truly trust you until they'd bled for you, as if that act of devotion was the determinant rather than indicator of their loyalty.

All these men and women, bleeding and dying for him. Oh, for the good of the Imperium and the glory of the God-Emperor too, but practically and ultimately, they bled for Jak Velasquez.

He walked past Salazar, bandaged around his expansive midsection but still sitting up and trying to lead his fellows in prayer. Helmsworth, barely able to move but smiling weakly. The medicae savant read from a list of Helmsworth's wounds that started with a collapsed lung and ended with lacerations to his shoulder, but the verdict seemed to be that he would likely make a full recovery. Radhati Halksis was still unconscious, 'psychic fatigue' Borelyle called it, and could not make any guess as to when the astropath would wake up, although he swore that there was nothing physically wrong with the man.

The ward for senior officers was a much smaller, rarely used room, with the finest medical equipment on the ship. Borelyle held the door open for Jak. "The old pirate's just got a flesh wound," he said with a sour laugh as Jak entered. "Time waster and a hypochondriac, that one, tell him he'll need to free up that bed by next watch."

In fact, Stieg was lying on the top of his bunk with one leg completely missing. The surgeons had been unable to save the knee and his stump ended half way down his thigh. Still, he seemed in reasonable good cheer, and even saluted his captain with a grin, but it was the man next to him that held Jak's attention.

Garian Sykarin was a ruin of a man, looking like a pale grey skeleton already half-way to the Emperor's embrace. Half of his face was covered in gel-packed bandages, covering his augmented eye and wrapping around beneath the ruins of his jaw.

"The idiots tried to shoot him in the face," Stieg cackled. "Didn't realise that the old devil has a skull made of ceramite, literally! He's still got the plate in there from the last time he was shot."

"He'll need a new eye," Borelyle added. "But seeing as he stole his last one from me, and it was getting in on in years, I don't think that will be too much of a concern for him. They gut shot him too, which was the bigger issue. No redundant organs, see? We had to do some emergency replacements, but luckily I suddenly found myself with a lot of donors on hand."

"He'll live then?" Jak said, not taking his eyes off the old man.

"He will. There's none tougher than Garian Sykarin."

The sound of his name seemed to rouse something in Sykarin. His one good eye flickered open, and rolled up to focus on Jak. A hoarse whisper, like the last gasp of air escaping a deflating tire, came from him.

"Boy."

Staring down at him, teeth clenched against the sudden swell of emotion within him, it took Jak a moment to find the words in response.

"Don't call me boy." Garian's lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. Coughing heavily, Erasmus Borelyle let himself out of the room to give the men some privacy. Stieg could not leave, but made no pretence of even wanting to give Jak and Garian a moment alone. He sat up in his bed and watched with a spectator's grin. Jak didn't mind. He had eyes only for his old mentor.

"I'm sorry," he said. _Sorry for angering Arch-deacon Benetor._ _Sorry for taking on the Lysandrian Crusade. Sorry for losing the Siren's Wail and the Portentia. Sorry for dragging us into a Warp Storm. Sorry that you were shot because I left you in charge._ So many things to apologise for.

Garian's eye closed a moment. His breath came in short, shallow breaths, the blanket clinging to his ribcage so that Jak could see every rise and fall. He opened his eye again and spoke, each word coming slowly as if having to be dragged a great distance.

"We have… a saying on… Elysia…. A… ship… in the harbour is… safe."

"But that's not what ships are for," Jak finished for him. He chuckled. "That's not an Elysian saying." Garian's face twisted, a grimace of pain.

"Boy… I need to tell you-"

"Enough," Jak said. "It can wait. Get some rest."

Garian's head sunk back on the pillow. His eye closed again and this time it didn't open. He was still talking, but the pain-killing cocktail that Borelyle had him on seemed to be kicking in again. His voice grew quieter as he spoke, until Jak had to lean in to hear.

"She is wrong… about you…. The true… heir… to your father…. Just needed to be… pushed…. Needed to become the man… I know you are… She… doesn't care… Wants it all."

Jak waited for more to come, but from the steadying of his breathing that followed, Garian seemed to be completely asleep. Jak stared down at the old man for some time, lost within himself, only returning to concerns of the present when Stieg spoke to him.

"You're going back in there."

Jak turned to his grievously wounded Gunnery Master. Pak Stieg, the old pirate who'd been right about everything. "I am," he said. Stieg nodded. There was no judgement in his expression, just grim acceptance of the task ahead.

"You saw those bone shrines. That's worship that is. Those slimy blighters built shrines to something down in that Enginarium. But you saw those rune signs again too, didn't you? The Placation of Burn, carved big as you like. Burn's a God of violence and rage, carnage incarnate. They worshipped him down there, but they fear him too."

"What do you think is down there, Stieg?"

"Whatever it is, you can't get clever with it," Stieg shook his head. "Don't try to chat to it, or capture it, or any other such foolishness. You kill it until it's dead, y'hear sir?" He made violent chopping motions with his hand as he spoke. Jak nodded.

"I will," he took a step forward, meaning it to be a gesture of steely determination, but in the small room he knocked one of the many machines connected to Sykarin, nearly toppling it over. As he flung an arm out to rescue it, one of the cords of tubing tugged at Sykarin's blankets. Tangled, Jak clumsily tried to rescue the situation, but only ended up dragging Sykarin's blankets half off the old man's body. His bare torso was revealed, something Jak had never seen before. He stared in horror.

Garian was an old man, and had been thin even before all the deprivations of the past weeks. Now he looked like a skeleton with old leather stretched across it, grey and wasting. But that was not what had caught Jak's attention. Garian Sykarin was covered in tattoos and marks of scarification, great, ugly symbols that seemed to claw at the edge of your sight and whisper awful truths into your mind.

"You recognise them now, do ye?" Jak turned back to Stieg, and there was a horrible leer on the man's face, as if the knowledge of chaos signs was some moral failure that Jak had now joined him in.

"How…" Jak couldn't find words to ask the question, struck dumb by the awful reality of the chaos markings that covered Sykarin's body.

"Of course, you wouldn't have known," Stieg said. "It would've been whilst you were living with your mother on that bloody wheat field of a planet she called home. It happened when the Admiral had command of the _Bella Horrida,_ useless old bucket that she was,and we were on the Mecadian Front, which was no place to be with the Guard on the retreat across the whole sub-sector. We mostly just raced from war zone to war zone pulling out evacuees. So, we were sent to Mozghal II, where the Lychidi 41st were trying to get out like a wet fart."

Jak tried to listen, keeping his eyes on Stieg's face as the man told his story, but the horrible sight of Garian's bare torso -and the marks covering it- was almost taunting him to look back around and never look away.

"Old Velasquez sends Sykarin down to the surface to a town where the Lychidi and a bunch of civilians are about to get over-run by some right bloodthirsty madmen. He's coordinating the effort, you see, going to get a bunch of armsmen down to the ground, reinforce the lines whilst the shuttle-boys get everyone out, then turn the whole town to glass from orbit. All according to the old man's plan." Stieg's eyes went unfocused, as he were bringing himself back to the battle as he spoke.

"Well, three of the enemy's ship dropped right down behind us, almost on top of us. Who would have expected the mad bastards would have tried something like that? Not the old man's fault, you understand? Sheer madness," he shook his head in wonderment. "Gravity tore one of them apart straight away, but the other two were bloody lucky and between 'em there was more than enough firepower to tear apart the useless old Bella. There was nothing else for it if we wanted to save the ship."

It dawned on Jak that he had heard this story before. Not in so much detail, but enough to know how it ended. "Father fled," he said, remembering Garian's words to him back at Lysander III. He had been trying to explain something to Jak, if only he'd had the sense to listen.

Stieg nodded, still grinning in some perverse satisfaction at Jak's growing understanding. "Aye he did. We beat a hasty retreat and left Mozghal II to the mad bastard cults. Sykarin was still down there with a whole lot of our people."

"Five thousand," Jak said. "Father sacrificed five thousand men to save ten thousand."

Stieg pursed his lips. "Don't recall exact numbers. Sounds about right. They weren't dead mind you, none of them were that lucky. They were captured. Now I was reaver you know, and I'm not proud but that's my history and I don't hide it. But I wasn't a _reaver_ , you know? Not like the cults. Those mad bastards, they were barely animals. All they understood was pain and power."

Finally, Jak looked back at Garian, taking in the tattoos, the ritualistic scars, the horrific desecration of his body, understanding the truth for the first time.

"How long? How long did the enemy have them for, Sykarin and the others?"

"Three months. There were only a couple of hundred left alive by the time the planet was retaken. Two hundred out of five thousand. And a fair few who couldn't live with themselves, even after they'd been rescued. Not Sykarin though, carved up and all, he just got back up and went back to work. Never talked about what happened to him of course. But they carved him up good, marked him as one of theirs, as _property_. He never got the rejuvenat to get rid of it all, maybe didn't trust the doctors not to squeal to the Inquisition. They'd done his face too though, that ragged cheek there, see? He burned the markings off himself."

Jak stared at Sykarin, then back at Stieg. Stieg wasn't leering anymore, there was hardness in his face, a satisfaction that his captain now understood something vital, not just about Garian Sykarin, but about the galaxy he lived in and the crew that served him.

"Man's done his time for your family," Stieg said. "Yes indeed."

=][=

Hollow, dead eyes in a polished skull and a jaw wired open to accommodate the gold-plated grill of the vox-caster. Jak stared into the eyes of the servo skull and felt the ghost of long-dead sailors looking back at him. With a static crackle, the Rites of Penitence could be heard through the vox, as they would be heard across the whole ship. Jak waited for them to finish before he addressed his crew.

Four of those crew were in his great cabin with him, in various states of anxiety and expectation, watching Jak from the other side of his desk. Ravenna Al Dessi, Borjean Narn, Maternin Shyendi and the xenos Jestross. Jak sensed that they were well aware how much depended on what he was about to say. A raft of data-slates and hastily compiled lists were strewn across the desk. One contained Borelyle's casualty list, another Lattemba's estimates of the numbers required to crew the _Stallion of the Empire_. The _Yolenna Symphony_ was down to a third of her original complement, and the Stallion was a much larger ship. They would need every survivor currently aboard her merely to assemble a skeleton crew; mutineers or not, the sailors in the brig were essential personnel.

The liturgy wound down, and the vox-system went quiet. A red light blinked inside the servo's eye, indicating that the vox-receiver was live. There was a pause, Jak suddenly found himself caught in the momentous silence. He leant in closely to the servo-skull. "This is your captain."

Another pause. The whole ship was listening. What to say to them, what to say? The silence was drawing out, if he didn't speak soon he'd be lost in it, drowned in it. Jak looked up at Al Dessi, Borjean, Shyendi and Jestross. And, very slowly, he smiled.

 _You're going into hell and back. It doesn't count if you don't smile._

"It's not been an easy few weeks for any of us, I'll say that much. We are a scared, scarred group, and we've been through hell no doubt. I know that sailors pushed to the edge can lose their minds for a time. But that's done now." He kept his eyes on the four in front of him as he spoke to the whole crew, hearing the steel in his own voice. "We're done being frightened and we're done being confused. There is work to do and if we're going to succeed I need everyone aboard this ship doing their d… their damndest." He had nearly said duty. But duty was a word for the service, not for privateers. He needed to give them a better reason to fight.

"When I was in the Navy I served as a cadet, as a midshipman, as an officer, and as an armsman. I remember being told by many captains just to focus on the task in front of me and not to ask questions, even when I was at my limit, even when I didn't know what we were fighting for or where we were sailing to. But this isn't the Navy. This is a Letter of Marque. So, I will be honest with all of you about the challenges in front of us, and about the opportunities." He saw the look of concern on Al Dessi's face, of curiosity on Shyendi's. He saw Borjean's crooked smirk beneath his perfectly curled moustaches and the impassive, unreadable expression of Jestross.

"We are far from home. We have no Navigator and the _Yolenna Symphony_ does not look likely to ever fly again. There is a xenos infestation aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_. And there are those in our midst who want us to fail, who want us to turn on each other, to be leaderless and panicked and to die in the loneliness of the void." He needed to keep talking, to move past the challenges they faced, not to dwell on them. He found a new level in his own voice, willing the crew to hear his determination, hear his will.

"But here is something else I know. We have found star charts aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_ , charts that will get us back to the Calixis Sector. It will not be easy without a Navigator, but we will do it. The _Stallion of the Empire_ is in fit shape to fly, with some minor work. Crewing her will not be easy either, but we will do that too. We have fought the xenos on board her and we have beaten them back. We will return shortly to finish the job. And every one of us will return home, crewing one of the greatest treasure galleons ever to grace the Imperium. It is not a question. It is a certainty. It is our destiny."

"The leaders of the mutiny are dead. Anyone who aided them, anyone who raised arms not in my name will have one choice, one opportunity. Join us. The God-Emperor himself smiles upon our work. Work alongside us and your loyalty will be rewarded ten times over. But fail to be loyal to me, or fail to be loyal to your fellow sailor and your punishment will be swift and merciless. The voyage continues, but only for those who swear to serve. That is all." Jak flicked a button and the light in the skull's eye slowly died away. He sat back in his seat, put his arms behind his head, and considered for a moment the four sailors in front of him. None of them said a word, but he could see that all –except perhaps the inscrutable Jestross- were hoping that his words would have the desired effect on the crew.

"Alright," Jak said, after a moment. "There's work still to do. You're all dismissed, but get ready to return to the Stallion by four bells. Al Dessi, you stay behind."

Al Dessi stood at attention as the others filed out. Jak silently marvelled at the fact that even amidst the exhausting chaos of the last twenty four hours, she had somehow managed to get herself looking immaculate, like a junior lieutenant on parade. She couldn't have had more than five minutes rest since the mutiny, but her clothes were clean and pressed, her hair neatly curled, her face free of fatigue. Jak doubted he'd be able to say the same for himself, if he'd thought to look in a mirror. He could learn a thing or two from Ravenna Al Dessi.

Whilst she stood and sweated on his reasons for holding her back, Jak went to a drawer in his desk and removed his las-gun. The carbine was a Minerva-Aegis pattern, not the most powerful weapon on the ship, but reliable and easy to work with at close range, the perfect weapon for shipboard assaults. He'd had it for years, knew its quirks and its spirit. He went through the Rites of Cleaning, working silently and without prayer, letting Al Dessi wait. Finally, he spoke.

"What do you think of Lattemba for Chief Enginseer?"

If the question surprised Al Dessi she did not show it. She nodded as if she'd already given the issue consideration and come to the same conclusion.

"It's a sound choice, given our limited options. He's one of the most senior remaining tech priests, and clearly demonstrated his loyalty to you during the mutiny."

"Yes," Jak said. "Loyalty." He dropped the word carefully, then launched his surprise attack. "Why didn't you tell me that Dhukov had given you the gun used to murder my father?"

Al Dessi was as cool as they came. She blinked and hesitated, but didn't shy away from his accusation, didn't dissemble or deny the charge. She considered the question before saying.

"I didn't know what to make of the evidence. In some ways, it made finding the assassin even more complicated. And I was concerned that it would distract you from the delicate political situation you had found yourself in between Queen Hermia, Lord L'Tarvius and Archdeacon Benetor. It implicated the tech priests and I knew that your relationship with Dhukov was already tense. I didn't want to draw you into open conflict with the Adeptus Mechanicus without more substantial evidence."

"I know the assassins aren't tech priests."

Al Dessi's brow creased. "How?"

"You saw it during the mutiny. Even with Jate controlling the vox systems, the tech priests were able to coordinate and communicate using their Noosphere. But the assassins have needed to communicate via a jury-rigged vox system. I know this because we've listened in on their conversations."

Al Dessi frowned at that, and Jak couldn't help but smile. "You're not the only one withholding information, XO."

Her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. "Yes sir."

"Never hold anything back from me again."

She nodded. "Yes sir."

"I plan to return to the _Stallion of the Empire_ and destroy whatever is down there that the Ryleth worship and that killed Dhukov. I'll take some bodyguards, Borjean, Jestross, a couple of Lattemba's priests, Adept Shyendi."

"You should take Mistrex, he's had first-hand experience now against the Ryleth."

"Yes, I'll promote him to Sergeant and give him a squad picked by Borjean. I'll take Sergeant Warral's and Sergeant Shadlo's squads as well." Those were the grav-chute trained squads, the ones who had participated in the assault on Starveling. By the Emperor that seemed a lifetime ago.

"You don't want more people?" Al Dessi asked.

"No, I don't want bodies to throw at the problem, I want people I can trust. Armsmen trained to do the job well."

"Sir, I have had first-hand experience against the Ryleth as well. I would like to request-"

"No." Jak stood up from his desk and walked around in front of Al Dessi. He felt that he owed her this standing up. "You had my back on the _Stallion of the Empire_ , against the Ryleth and the tech priests. You've had my back from the start. I know you never wanted me as captain, but from the moment we discovered my father's death, you've supported my leadership. I don't think I truly appreciated that until today. I want you in command of the Yolenna whilst I'm gone. And if I die, I entrust you to get her home."

He held out his hand, but Al Dessi did not take it. Instead, she made the sign of the Aquila, hands pressed to her chest. At heart, Ravenna Al Dessi would always be an officer of the Imperial Navy.

=][=

Maternin Shyendi stood at the edge of a great pit. The ominous maw of the _Perpetua Demitto_ plunged down into the darkness, a square shaft, one hundred feet across, so deep that Maternin could make out nothing of the bottom; after about twenty or so decks the sloping bulkheads disappeared into blackness all the way down into the lowest parts of the _Stallion of the Empire._ It was a terrifying demonstration of the vastness of the void ship and it left Maternin in wordless awe. Next to her, Keeper Casanovus casually flicked the butt of his lho-stick over the edge.

"What's the point of a great big hole on a ship anyway?" He asked, turning away from the edge. The Keeper had a thick padded bandage around his neck from his last visit to the _Stallion of the Empire_ , but looked no worse for wear, and he had supplemented it with a colourful silk scarf. Maternin had heard female sailors comment on the librarian's good looks. Frankly, she didn't see it.

"It's a loading chute," she explained, as if to a child whose wetware was malfunctioning. "Almost every ship has one. Large equipment can be transported to any deck of the ship, right down to the Enginarium." That last fact was why Maternin and the captain had worked out this plan. Rather than approach whatever lurked in the Enginarium from the same direction that Dhukov would have come, they would use grav-chutes and the hoist-ropes up here close to the launch bay, in order to descend the _Perpetua Demitto_ and scout the situation whilst still being able to make a quick exit if required.

Jak was working with Borjean and two electro-priests to get the hoist cranes operational again. The first squad would descend with grav-chutes, and then the heavy power packs for the las-weapons would be lowered down to them. Jak had made sure that every sailor was equipped with the best weaponry the _Yolenna Symphony_ could provide: Lucius pattern hellguns, Soros pattern shock rapiers, melta bombs, chainswords, heavy flamers and the armoury's prized possession, a Mars pattern storm bolter. Whatever was down there, they would be ready for it.

Maternin picked up the storm bolter and murmured a binaric prayer, blessing its power, thanking its machine spirit and beseeching the Machine God for smooth operation of its moving parts. Nearby, Sergeant Worral was leading her squad in their own prayers. The Sergeant still wore the silver mask of the Maccabian Janissaries, her face completely covered by the impassive visage of some long-dead Imperial Saint. Most of the armsmen on board the Yolenna carried some ramshackle mix of armour and equipment that they'd salvaged from their old lives. Maternin briefly wondered what that masked helm meant to Worral, before he thoughts returned to the task at hand.

"What do you think is down there?" Casanovus asked. Maternin tried to ignore him, focusing on her ministrations of the storm bolter. The librarian didn't seem to mind, and continued talking to her. "I cross-referenced the audio of Dhukov's slaughter party with all our xenos-biologis records. No matches. Nothing."

She looked at him. "The Archmagos said 'Abomination of Construction'. It may be some corrupted piece of technology, an Automata or the like."

"Have you ever heard an Automata make those kinds of noises?"

Maternin looked up from the storm bolter, and for a moment recalled the terrible sounds that had been recorded in Dhukov's last transmission. "No."

Sergeant Mistrex, young and restless, was going over the hellguns again and again, testing the cable housing and adjusting the gyro-stabilisers. Maternin wished that he would stop; his nervous fidgeting would be agitating the machine spirits. It was agitating her.

"Very good," she heard Jak call out. Everyone's head snapped round to where the captain stood. "Throw them in, sergeant."

Sergeant Shadlo carried an armful of military-grade lumen sticks. He started to walk around the perimeter of the shaft, throwing one in every few metres. Maternin walked over to the edge, watching the sticks become tiny pinpricks of light as they plummeted downwards to the Enginarium.

She made her way to Jak, and presented the storm bolter to him. "It is ready for battle, sir." The captain smiled eagerly, like a boy with a toy, as he took the heavy weapon in both hands.

"Very good, Shyendi." He looked about with satisfaction at the preparations. Behind him, Borjean Narn gave Maternin a familiar nod and tweaked his moustache with a smirk.

"Worral!" The captain barked. "Get your people ready to go." The Maccabian sergeant nodded silently and began assembling her armsmen. "Alright," Jak continued. "First group down, we secure the perimeter, ensure that the lifter still works for our egress, then lower the heavy weapons. Then second group follows. Third group holds position here." He was speaking to himself, mentally confirming his intention. He turned to Maternin with a grin. "Ready to find out what ate the Archmagos?"

Maternin didn't ever have the opportunity to respond to the captain's tasteless remark. Jestross, peering down into the gloom of the _Perpetua Demitto,_ gave a bark of alarm. Jak, Maternin and Borjean all leant over the edge to look. A small point of light, shifting like a candle's flame could be seen flickering in the depths of the shaft.

"That's not one of ours, sir," said Shadlo.

"No indeed," Jak murmured. He turned to Maternin. "A machinery explosion?" He asked.

"It's possible," she hazarded. "But I can't think of anything in that part of the Enginarium that would explode from having a lumen stick dropped on it."

"It's moving," Borjean said. All the armsmen had gathered at the edge to look now, and sure enough, Borjean was right. The point of light, burning like a furnace or a fireball was growing brighter and larger. It moved upwards with a deliberateness that suggested control, flickering in and out of view as if being temporarily occluded, although by what Maternin could not say.

"Ist moving towards us," Jestross said.

"Sailors, strap on your hellguns," Jak said, not taking his eyes off the light. There was no alarm in his voice, but the armsmen hurried to act on his order. Maternin could carry no hellgun, the broken mechadendrites still embedded in her back prevented her from wearing the power pack. She remained alongside Jak, looking down into the shaft. She noticed Casanovus standing with them as well. "You won't take a gun?" She asked.

"I don't want anything weighing me down when I run away," he said not looking away from the moving light. Maternin could not tell if he was joking or not.

The thing had started to take shape now as it rose, a dark silhouette of fire and shadow. Although the shape was unclear, it appeared to be a construct, some type of dark metal machinery with an internal fire that shone through the gaps in the rivets. It was climbing, and the scrape of metal on metal echoed upwards. Images of bone shrines flashed through Maternin's mind- sharp talons, maybe sharp enough to gouge through adamantium. Maybe sharp enough to rip through the hull of a ship, she thought, remembering the damage they had found inflicted on the Stallion's outer plating.

"Sir," she said, terror slowly gripping her. She didn't know what they were looking at but the certainty hit her that Dhukov had been right. It was an abominable construct, a thing of whispered legend amongst the Adeptus Mechanicus, some fusion of machine and madness. A daemon engine.

Before she could put voice to her fear the shape took off, launching itself into the air. Its wings fanned open, knife-sharp and shining from the reflected glow of the burning light from within the monster.

"Get back!" Jak yelled. "Thirty metres and ready to fire."

They rushed back from the _Perpetua Demitto_ as the daemon engine burst up from the darkness, barely seeming to fit in the cavernous chamber. Wings unfurled it was the size of a Valkyrie, but built like no Imperial ship Maternin had ever seen. It was a metal construct designed like a dragon, with raking talons and bladed wings, and a vicious beaked maw. Armoured plates across its serpentine body, glowing with bronze runes, barely contained an inner core of pure inferno fire that seemed to power the monstrous engine.

With great, sweeping beats of its wings it flew to the edge of the _Perpetua Demitto_ , grabbing at the railings with its talons. The railings buckled beneath its terrible weight. The engine lifted it head and opened its jaws, giving a screech of rage, pain and madness. Maternin nearly fell down at the sound of it, but Jak grabbed at her robes and dragged her with him as they stumbled away from the thing.

"What is it?" Casanovus screamed.

"Heldrake!" Borjean yelled. "Oh God-Emperor preserve us it's a bloody Heldrake!"

"Back!" Jak was bellowing orders at the top of his lungs. "Back to the blast doors!"

Lattemba's electro-priests were on the other side of the shaft from the others. Bracing themselves they raised their hands and pumped lighting into the Heldrake, till it's molten metal body crackled with surging bolts of electricity. The creature swung its bulk around, scything its wings through the priests. They were thrown clear across the vault, bodies audibly breaking as they were hurled against the bulkheads.

"All squads!" Jak yelled as the creature was distracted. "Focus fire on the Heldrake! Shadlo get those damn doors!"

A score of thick red beams from the hellguns lit up the darkness of the vault, seeming to be absorbed directly into the armoured body of the Heldrake with minimal effect. It swung back towards them, whipping its neck back and forth. It charged towards them clumsily on all four. Its claws rent gouges in the deck with every step it took. The Heldrake opened its jaws and screeched again. Maternin saw a tongue formed from thick metal cabling, thrashing below the thick barrel of a flamer that seemed to form from the creature's very throat. And then she saw nothing because the world was full of fire.

=][=

=][=

=][=

 _Author's Note: There is an image, on the 1d4chan page for Heldrake, of one of these metal dragon's climbing an indoor wall. We can credit that image for the final scene playing out the way that it does. I'd love to name the artists but I have no idea who drew it and haven't been able to find out. But one of the best parts of writing this story is the crazy and amazing 40k art that people have done. So thanks to all the artists, professional and enthusiast, and thanks to everyone who's shared art with me that they think is cool, or beautiful or evocative._

 _No question for this chapter, as I think my curiosities finally got too obscure and I still haven't been able to find out whether tech priests have Astropaths. I'm going to keep looking into but the answer may well be that I'm the only person who's interested in the technical logistics and political bureaucracy of interstellar psychic communication systems, which would be understandable._


	25. Part 3- Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

The blast doors slammed closed. The rolling ball of raging fire was cut off suddenly from it sources, and the oily flames winked out of existence with a _whoomph._ The roar of the Heldrake could still be heard from the other side, but for the moment they were safe.

"Back to the junction," Jak yelled, and the armsmen jogged back to new positions, keeping their guns trained on the blast doors. The passageway was narrower than the vault from which they'd come, but still wide and high enough for the Heldrake to pass through. At the junction it narrowed further, splitting off in three directions, any one of which would be difficult for the creature to squeeze through. They crouched behind engineering terminals and stood in the half-cover of the junction corners, eyes fixed on the blast doors.

The roar of fire could still be heard on the other side focused and steady now. "The beast's trying to melt through the doors." Shadlo said. The metal could be heard creaking in distress as thick slabs of Ceramite absorbed the hellish temperatures. The blast doors were designed to withstand explosions though; Jak was confident they would hold.

Four multi-laser turrets descended from the overhead deck and swivelled to train themselves on the blast doors. A robotic voice announced in calm tones, "Threat identified. Please move out of line of fire."

"What is that thing, Borjean?" Jack asked. "You called it Hell Duck?"

"Close enough, Sir. Heldrake."

"It's a machine abomination," Maternin said, her voice thick with fear and disgust. "Living metal holding daemonic essence fast in our world."

"Sounds about right," Borjean said. "Saw the blighters flying with the enemy in the Praxis Wars. They tore our fighters apart. The wings are sharp enough to cut through adamantium, they're strong enough to crush a Fury in their claws and that flamer in his gullet could roast a pilot in his seat."

"That monster can take on an interceptor?" Casanovus moaned. "Oh, we so very badly need to run away."

The roar of fire halted and was replaced by a slow, rhythmic banging that echoed down the passageways and rattled the decking. "Can it break through those doors?"

Sergeant Shadlo squinted at the blast doors, red hot from the Heldrake's flame. "They're ceramite over adamantium, Sir. But focused heat to weaken them followed by steady pressure. It might be that-"

His voice was cut off by the boom. The blast doors exploded outwards, torn apart as the Heldrake burst through. Its head was lowered and smoke obscured their view as it barrelled into the passageway, screeching triumphantly. The sound was a nightmare that went straight through the ears to the heart and squeezed, terror and despair distilled to a single echoing shriek.

No one needed to give the order to fire. The hellguns of the armsmen joined the Stallion's multilaser defence turrets, cutting through the smoke and lighting up the glowing chrome plating of the Heldrake's armoured body. The beams scanned across its body but the beast absorbed the obscene amount of laser fire without ever seeming to be hurt by it. The Heldrake roared and raised its head until it scraped the upper-deck. It directed a jet of rolling fire at the turrets, obliterating them in seconds, the twisted barrels hanging from their housing, molten metal dripping onto the deck below.

"Bloody lasers aren't going to do it!" Borjean yelled, not letting up his fire. "We need to fall back."

"We need to find a weak spot!" Jak called back from the other side of the passageway. He was yet to fire his storm bolter. "Get the head or between the joints."

Sergeant Mistrex had dropped his hellgun and was strapping up his grav chute. There was a wild-eyed look in his face as he raised his chainsword high above his head. The metal teeth whirred into life and Mistrex gave a whoop of defiance at the roaring Heldrake.

"Only the God-Emperor lives forever!" He screamed, his battle-cry drawing every eye to him. Before anyone could understand his intention, his head was down and legs pumping, sprinting away from them. He ran straight towards the Heldrake. Even the monster itself seemed surprised, swinging its head from side to side, before opening its steel-trap jaws wide to roast the sergeant.

With a dancer's agility, Mistrex side-stepped, not breaking stride for an instant. The man had been a drop-trooper once, practically born in a grav-chute. He knew how to do things with it others might think impossible. He leapt towards the bulkhead, feet striking cleanly to push off and launch himself in the air. With a quick burst of the grav-chutes thrusters he back-flipped over the Heldrake's head, landing at the base of its neck.

Mistrex roared in triumph and pain as he landed. His boots were sizzling, the heat from the cursed creature's body coming off it in waves. He brought his chainsword down against the Heldrake's neck and cried out again as the sparks flew.

"We need to fall back!" Borjean yelled again, but Jak couldn't take his eyes off the sergeant's brave stand. Sparks burst away in all directions from where the ripping teeth of the chainsword met the armoured spine of the Heldrake. It was impossible to see if he was cutting through, but the creature was screaming. It thrashed its neck from side to side, but Mistrex kept his balance even though the heat from the creature's body must have been unbearable.

Jak fancied that for a moment he could see the look of grim triumph in Mistrex's eyes. It was going to work. He could imagine the chainsword ripping through the Heldrake's armoured neck, allowing them to finish off the wounded abomination with las-fire. But then the Heldrake lurched sideways, throwing itself bodily against the portside bulkhead. Mistrex lost balance and the Heldrake gave a jerking heave of its body. Mistrex was thrown free. As he fell towards the deck, the Heldrake swiped out a single wing-blade and sliced straight through the sergeant's midsection. Mistrex's corpse hit the deck in two pieces.

The Heldrake did not exult in the death, it did not even stop to look. It swung its head towards the surviving Yolennas and charged. The sergeant's death had merely given them time to scatter in all directions, pursued by the monster that their weapons could not wound.

 **=][=**

Maternin fled down the passageway, buffeted by sailors to either side of her, everybody scrambling in a mad panic to escape the Heldrake. She could hear it behind her, feel the deck rattling beneath her feet with every thumping step that it took.

Following Borjean, Maternin jinked down a passageway too narrow for the Heldrake to follow. Someone jostled her so hard that she fell to the deck. She caught a glimpse of Casanovuses' scarf, as she tumbled head over heels and came up facing backwards. Her pistol fell from her hand and skidded across the deck. Two armsmen were running towards her, they were going to run straight over her.

The Heldrake's neck craned around the corner, its head as big as a horse. Chrome plated jaws opened and with the speed of a cobra it snatched one of the armsmen. The beast rag-dolled the sailor, shook him back and forth, slamming the body into the second armsman and grinding them both against the bulkhead. They barely had a chance to scream before the creature had destroyed their bodies. It turned its head back and Maternin caught a glimpse of eyes that smouldered like the cores of suns. A wall of heat came off the creature, so thick it was hard to breathe. The Heldrake opened its jaws again and Maternin was momentarily frozen by the horrible sight of the flamer extending from the maw, driven into the throat of the creature like a spear, its pain and rage only possible to express through baleful tongues of flame.

Arms grabbed Maternin beneath both shoulders and heaved her bodily. She caught a glimpse of the flamer igniting and then she was half-hauled, half-thrown, tossed about like she was caught by a wave, the roar of fire like the roar of the ocean. When she could see again, she'd been thrown into a side cabin, and was huddled between Borjean and Casanovus. The three of them took cover on the far side of the room, behind a workbench. The door on the far side of the cabin had slammed closed, and glowed red hot from the flames that the Heldrake was breathing down the passageway on the other side.

"It must require a fuel supply," Maternin babbled, frantically calculating fuel efficiencies in an attempt to calm herself. "A limited supply, perhaps ten minutes of full powered flame. It will run out, or the abomination will need to resupply or-"

"Don't think like that red robe," Borjean said. "This ain't a cogwork puzzle. It's madness from the Warp itself. The blighter doesn't need to make sense. It just is."

"What do we do?" Casanovus cried out. "We're trapped! _What do we do_?" The heat in the room was rising. The air itself solidifying with oppressive heat, heat that drew into the lungs, that made clothes heavy against the skin. A pipe burst on the far side of the cabin, steam whistling urgently as it escaped. Components melted against the wall. They were slowly being roasted alive.

And then the roar ended, punctuated by a frustrated screech from the Heldrake. Huddled in silence, the three listened to the creature scrabble at the bulkheads for a moment, before it awkwardly turned its massive body and moved off down the larger main passageway.

"It's headed aft," Borjean whispered. With difficulty, the heavy man lifted himself off Maternin. He took his jacket off for a moment and removed his metal cuirass. It dropped to the deck with a clatter and Maternin could hear it plink as it cooled. Borjean ran a finger through moustaches wet with sweat. "Too hot to be bothering with that, I think." He still put the jacket back on though, Maternin noticed. The vain old man loved that jacket, no matter how hot it was.

Maternin was staring at the door, still glowing, but cooling to a dull orange now that the Heldrake was gone. That wasn't her focus though; she was visualising the layout of the ship.

"We can't let it go that way," she said. "There's vitae oxygen banks all along that path. If they burn, the resulting explosion could destroy half the superstructure."

"Blast," Borjean said dryly. "We'll need to draw the beastie away then."

"No," Casanovus said, his voice rising in fear. "You can't, you're mad. We need to get out of here. We can't chase that thing. We need to run!"

But Borjean wasn't listening to the librarian. He checked his bolter and nodded to Maternin.

Borjean wasn't listening to the librarian. He checked his bolter and nodded to Maternin. "Come along red robe. Let's stop the wee dragon from blowing us all sky high."

 **=][= _  
_**

Jak crouched alongside Jestross and the five survivors of Worral's squad, trying to coordinate his armsmen scattered across the ship and track the movement of the Heldrake at the same time.

"Sir? What's happening?" Al Dessi's voice came through on the vox, crackling with static.

"We've found what the Ryleth were worshipping, but the bloody thing shrugs off hellguns and multilasers like they're a light show."

"Sir, can you evacuate? Tellmos can have the shuttle ready to go in ten if you can muster at the launch bay."

"I'm not leaving this thing roaming the ship Al Dessi. It's between us and the launch bay in any case."

"Sir, if we can't kill it with the Yolenna's best weapons, then-"

"We're not leaving it Al Dessi! This is my ship now. Mine!" Jak stood up, hugging his storm bolter close to his chest

"Sir," Worral interrupted. "Could the Yolenna Symphony's anti-torpedo guns not kill the Heldrake?"

"How wouldst thou lure it close enough?" Jestross asked.

"We don't need to get it that far," Jak said, feeling the faint glimmer of a plan coming together in his mind.

Footsteps clattered on the deck, running towards them, and the armsmen tensed and hefted their weapons. But no Heldrake was going to move that lightly, nor pant like he'd just run a marathon.

"Sir," Borjean was red faced and gasping as he came around the corner. "Sir, beg to report our daemon dragon is _hng_ ," he clutched at his chest and took a deep, steadying breath. Borjean's return to heavy drinking had clearly taken a toll on his stamina. "Daemon dragon is heading towards some highly combustible equipment. We'd be best off turning him around."

"Right," Jak said. "Al Dessi, beat to quarters and crew the guns. Bring the Yolenna around nine points by the starboard and quarter power to Red Rhoda. Have Tellmos open up the docking gate and prepare the shuttle for immediate departure on my order."

"Aye Sir, starboard by the spire and quarter power to the forward lance, Mr Tellmos in the air and waiting, sir."

"Very good. Sergeant Worral, if you'd be so good as to get your people down to the launch bay deck and return to the _Perpetua Demitto_. I want you starboard side and firing as soon as you see the Heldrake. Don't stand your ground, just get its attention and run. Get to the far starboard side of the ship and hold till you hear the order."

"Your word and the Emperor's will, Sir!" Worral snapped to attention, and her armsmen behind her readied themselves to go back in to the breech.

"Borjean, Jestross, my lads," Jak grinned. "You're with me."

 **=][=**

It was not hard to follow that path of the Heldrake through the ship. It had taken the central passageway, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Its razor-sharp wings had dragged deep gouges into the bulkheads on either side of the passageway and exposed fittings had been demolished by its bulk as it passed.

She caught up to the creature when it was twenty metres away from the pressurised tanks, its armoured back to her. She'd lost her gun in the first mad scramble for survival, and had no idea how to attack it now, but she knew that it couldn't be allowed to continue on its current path.

Maternin eyed a length of piping, angled out from the bulkhead where the coupling had burst. Murmuring a plea for forgiveness from the Machine God, she took the pipe in hand and wrenched it free from the bulkhead.

"You there!" She called, stumbling after the Heldrake. She willed herself to keep moving, forced herself to ignore the fear and the rational part of her mind that screamed at her to flee. "You! Stop!" With a grunt of exertion, she threw the pipe overarm. It clanged against the Heldrake's tail and the creature froze.

It snorted and then made a whine, a noise somewhere between confusion and anger. Maternin felt panic seize her. She flung herself against the bulkhead, sidling behind the hydrogen detection altar and into the shadows. She heard the squeal of metal as the Heldrake struggled to turn around, the deliberate clang of claws against the deck, the steady furnace roar of its breath growing louder. It was coming her way.

Closing her eyes and willing her breathing to be quieter, Maternin tried not to imagine the creature slowly walking towards her. What were its senses like, she could not help but wonder. Did it have a sense of smell? Could it track her by some electro-magnetic sense like the Corpuscarii used? Her chest felt like an ice-cold fist had gripped her heart. Her body was frozen. The parts of her mind that thought fast and slow, human and Mechanicus, were both telling her that she was doomed, that any moment now she would feel its roasting breath and the fangs sinking into her body.

A blast of hot air hit her and she opened one eye. _The Heldrake was passing_. Up close she could see the scaled plating of its sinuous neck, the horrific markings of chaos that glowed like fresh brandings. The heat coming off of the creature was enough to singe her robes. She was paralysed with fear of the beast, unable to move in case it saw her, but knowing that inevitably it would turn its head, or she would scream out at the fear and pain of its very presence.

And then a sound, a familiar sound. A boom and the roar of twin rockets. The holy storm bolter. She looked up and saw the Heldrake's head, big as her whole body, slammed by two bolts that exploded against its face. The creature gave a screech of rage and bounded towards the shooter. Maternin sank to her knees, gasping with relief, realising that she'd been holding her breath the entire time.

 **=][=**

Seeing the Heldrake running towards him, Jak almost dropped the storm bolter. He had been prepared for the weight of the thing and the kick of its recoil, but he still felt like his shoulder had been near-wrenched from its socket. The weapon was a mighty one, favoured by the Adeptus Astartes, modified for a mere mortal's use and typically wielded by someone wearing power armour. Yet despite its destructive power, the Heldrake had shrugged both bolts off as mere annoyances and was currently shrieking in rage as it bore down on him.

Jak saw its jaws open and knew that he'd never be able to outrun the flames. Borjean reacted faster, slamming his shoulder in his captain's body and bearing them both down. They'd situated themselves next to the downstairs hatch, and Borjean threw them both down it. Jak hit the top step and rolled, feeling every metal corner jabbing into his body. The world was thrown into chaos as they hit the deck, and heard the boom of the Heldrake's flames hitting the spot where they had just been standing.

"Stay down," Borjean screamed as the decking directly above them was obliterated. They crawled on their elbows away from the destruction, faces pressed to the deck as burning shrapnel rained down on them. Only sheer adrenaline kept Jak from screaming out as a red-hot shards hit his bare arm, his skin sizzling at the touch. Borjean kept his body over Jak's, bearing the brunt of the burning debris.

When they'd cleared the falling wreckage, both men rolled onto their backs to look up. A four metre wide section of the deck above had disappeared, replaced by a ragged hole that dropped cooling metal from its glowing hot edges. Jak could see the shadow of the Heldrake through that hole. The creature struggling to crane its neck down and finish the job on the two men.

"Beast! Thou must face the knives of the Jerikyl before thou battles the pride-leader!" Jak could not see Jestross but he could imagine the sight, the fearless xenos standing tall with his knives held aloft, taunting the Heldrake. The creature was impossible to kill but it was proving easy to distract and direct. Its head immediately swung towards Jestross.

"How fast art thou, beast?" Jestross called out, and gave a clacking, howling war-cry. The Heldrake screamed its own reply and gave chase.

Jak and Borjean slowly rose to their feet. Borjean's jacket was still smouldering in a dozen places, he was bleeding from a cut to his head and his moustache had been singed. He shrugged the jacket off and gave his whiskers a rueful tweak.

"That bloody critter's done it now," he muttered and Jak nodded.

"We need to keep heading down," he said, retrieving his storm bolter. "To the launch bay deck."

 **=][=**

The first thing Maternin did, when she was able to stand up again, was run to where her length of pipe had landed and retrieve it. It wasn't much of a weapon, but she wasn't so deeply seeped in the cold rationality of the Adeptus Mechanicus that she wouldn't accept the slight psychological comfort of its weight in her hands. That done, she jogged back down the passageway to find the rest of her crew.

She stopped at the pit that the Heldrake had created; a patch of melted decking that spanned the width of the passageway. The monster had easily leapt over it, but Maternin had no such option. Gingerly, she lowered herself over the sloped, sinking edge of warped metal grating and dropped to the deck below.

The wall lumens were off on this deck, presumably due to damaged electrical systems from the Heldrake's attack. Looking either way down the passageway, Maternin could see little in the gloom. In the distance, amidships, she could hear the Heldrake's roar. Shuddering, she took a step away from the noise. Her foot brushed something in the darkness. She bent down, found her hand touching leather, and came up holding Borjean Narn's greatcoat, covered in burn holes. There was no sign of the man himself. Had he passed this way and thrown off his jacket, or had it been torn off him.

Maternin looked around, wishing that her ocular implants had provided her with some form of night vision. It was so hard to see anything, relying only on the light cast by the hole to the deck above. She cautiously took a few steps forward, and listened for sounds of Borjean or the captain. "Is anyone there?" She called out tentatively.

 _Tck-Tck-Tck._

A sound, much closer than the Heldrake's distant carnage. Not a mechanical noise either, not a noise of the ship, but something organic and guttural. Maternin spun around. She could see no sign of anything.

 _Tck-Tck-Tck._

It crawled out of the shadows on six legs, scuttling along the decks and up the bulkhead until it was at about head height with Maternin. Arthropodean maxillae pulsated in its vertical slit mouth as it peered at her curiously through segmented eyes and quietly chittered to itself.

 _Tck-Tck-Tck._

Another of the creatures crawled forward, and a third. Ryleth. Maternin recognised them from the captain's descriptions. The worshippers of the Heldrake. Did they understand what it was? Did they truly see it as a God, or were they as terrified of it as Maternin was and desperate to appease it? As curious as she was, she knew that now was not the time for answers. Gaze narrowing, she hefted her pipe over her shoulder.

The one on the bulkhead leapt fist, spiked limbs outstretched. Maternin swung the pipe with both hands, catching the creature in its midsection. It was surprisingly heavy, and she was forced backwards on her feet as the Ryleth was barely fended away. Another of the xenos darted forward, but reared up and back as Maternin swung the pipe back its way.

"Back!" She yelled, hoping they understand the message. She jabbed the pipe towards them as if it were a mighty weapon. "Back!"

Another jumped into the air and again Maternin barely kept it at bay, but it was a feint. Maternin saw the other Ryleth's leap from the corner of her eye, and knew that she wasn't going to be fast enough to keep it from landing on her, from stopping those vicious bladed limbs from driving home.

The Ryleth exploded in mid-air, shot by an explosive round that shredded its body, splattering Maternin with viscous internal fluids and gore.

"Ho there, you blighters!" Maternin turned to the new voice behind her. Another Ryleth exploded. "Steady now! Plenty for everyone!" Borjean, bloody, burned and bolter in hand, was running down the corridor. With a smile of relief and renewed determination, Maternin swung her pipe back towards the remaining Ryleth.

 **=][=**

Jak was portside of the _Perpetua Demitto_ , on the launch bay level. He could see Worral's squad on the other, their guns firing upwards, but he wasn't able to see their target. He leaned forward, craning his neck to see up the shaft, and caught sight of the Heldrake as it threw itself off the edge.

Its metal wings cast a great shadow as it flew down, the wingtips nearly reaching across the vastness of the _Perpetua Demitto_. It was a graceful motion made horrifying by the glimpse of wicked claws and a searing underbelly of molten, nightmare-fuelled warp power barely restrained by pulsing armoured plates that rose and feel against daemon's breath.

The Heldrake landed at the edge of Worral's squad and immediately began flaming. Jak heard the flames and screams and hoped that most of them had got away in time. He put the storm bolter to his shoulder and braced his feet. Murmuring a prayer for destructive power –the size of the creature meant he didn't have much need to ask for aim- he sighted down the double barrel of the heavy bolt gun, took a slow, stilling breath, and fired.

The storm bolter recoiled like a hammer to the chest as the twin bolts streaked away. Jak's first shot had barely seemed to dent the creature, and he had little hope that the second would do much better. He simply wanted its attention.

He got it. The Heldrake screamed, cutting off the stream of its flamethrower, and craned its neck almost 180 degrees over its wing to glare with malice and bloodlust at Jak across the other side of the _Perpetua Demitto_.

"That's right," Jak muttered through gritted teeth. "Come chase me."

The Heldrake started to turn awkwardly on the spot, and Jak saw its hind legs tense. He didn't wait to watch any longer. He turned and sprinted away.

The whole deck shuddered as the Heldrake landed behind him, and its screech echoed down the passageway, bouncing off the bulkheads around him. The central passageway between the launch bay and the _Perpetua Demitto_ was wide enough for a squadron of Leman Russ tanks to drive through three abreast. The Heldrake would have space to build up a fair amount of running speed.

"How are we doing Ms Al Dessi?" He panted into his microbead.

"The ship is in position, Sir, gun crews are primed for your order, but they need a firing solution."

"Have Etherics lock-on to my vox signal. That's your firing solution."

"Sir, that-"

"Just do it! And tell Tellmos to take off, get the shuttle out of here!"

Borjean and Maternin came out of a junction ahead of him. Jak saw their eyes widen looking past him. They didn't need his screamed order to "Run!" They could see the Heldrake bearing down on them, it's stumbling, awkward gait the only thing keeping it from catching them and tearing them to shreds or roasting them in their boots.

Behind Borjean and Maternin a dozen of more Ryleth were in pursuit, filling up the passageway. The continued to follow as the three sailors ran down the central passageway, skittering between the Heldrake's legs.

Jak saw the launch bay doors up ahead. Throwing the storm bolter to the side –he would ask the gun's spirit for forgiveness later-, he sprinted towards the locking mechanism and slammed his hand against the terminal. The wait for the doors to slide open was unbearable.

"Go! Go!" Maternin and Borjean hustled through the doors as they were still opening. Jak turned to see the Heldrake pause and the flamer extending from it maw. He threw himself through the doors and rolled desperately to the side as the flames spewed forth.

Coming up standing, his body screaming in pain from the bruising he'd been taking and the searing flames he'd just avoided, Jak kept moving forwards. Maternin and Borjean was heading to the shuttle, which Tellmos had kept hovering in the launch bay, thrusters firing to keep it a wobbling few metres off the ground.

"Dammit Tellmos!" Jak yelled, and then to Maternin and Borjean. "Not the shuttle! The bunker! Get to the fire bunker!"

"Heard the weather was getting hot, Sir," came back the voice of the cheerfully nonchalant shuttle pilot. "Didn't want to leave you here to sweat on your own."

"Get to the damn fire bunker!" Jak yelled again, running in that direction. The fire bunker lay against the starboard side of the bay, in the other direction to the shuttle. "Get out of here Tellmos!"

Before the doors to the launch bay had fully opened, the Heldrake burst through, forcing its bulk through the gap. As soon as it was inside the Heldrake spread its wings and lifted its head, keening a triumphant, daemonic scream.

"Sir?" Tellmos sounded confused for the first time. Borjean and Maternin were now running away from him and towards the bunker. Jak watched as the Heldrake lowered its gaze and leapt towards the shuttle. The shuttle swung around jerkily to face it, thrusters not designed for such a maneuverer. It brought its guns to bear on the Heldrake, but they were anti-infantry weapons, designed for clearly the route for a landing party, not taking on a creature such as this.

The Heldrake threw itself against the shuttle, all four sets of claws driving deep into the cockpit, dragging the shuttle back down to the deck. The shuttles guns roared as the gunners fired everything they had into the creature, but it wasn't enough to make the Heldrake let go.

The portside docking gate was open, and a faint shimmering void shield was the only thing between them and the void. For a brief moment Jak considered just venting the Heldrake into space, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. He wanted the monster dead, and there was no clear way to get it in range of the Yolenna's anti-ordnance guns. There was only one way to guarantee a direct hit against a creature this size.

The cries of Tellmos and his small crew could be heard as flame and claw devastated the shuttle. Jak could only watch the destruction, unable to drag its attention away. He wasn't in position yet, they weren't ready for his final desperation gambit. He turned to run towards the bunker. Borjean was inside and Maternin was holding the door open.

The screams from the shuttle had mercifully died off, but the horrific noises of the Heldrake triumphant still rang out. This had clearly been a pleasurable kill for it, one worthy of celebrating.

"Al Dessi! Ready the lance!"

"Lance ready at your order, Sir!"

Maternin had the door to the fire bunker open, Jak was only about ten metres away. He couldn't help but turn back to where the Heldrake had smashed the shuttle to the deck and was astride it, screaming triumphantly. Its head swung around and caught sight on Jak. Smoke rose from its nostrils and its eyes flared with an ancient, intelligent malevolence. Jak saw the coiled wires running up and down the creature's legs tense, ready to spring. Ready to bring him down and tear him apart.

The Heldrake leapt. Jak turned and sprinted the last few metres. He could see the fear in Maternin's eyes, could almost feel the claws in his back already. He threw himself through the doorway, yelling as he did.

"Fire!"

 **=][=**

Maternin heaved the heavy bunker door closed with all her might. Tumblers automatically clicked into place and gears whirred as the door sealed tight shut. Under half a second later she heard the roar outside, and felt the deck shake beneath her. She was thrown to the ground beside Captain Velasquez and Borjean.

The only light into the fire bunker had come from a narrow length of plas-glass set two metres deep into the thick adamantium walls. It went suddenly dark against a blinding flash outside the bunker, as the explosive power that was hitting the ship rattled their bones and vibrated through the decking.

When the ship had finally stopped shaking, Maternin slowly raised her head. Red light from emergency lumens cast an eerie glow. The back-up generators within the bunker had come on, meaning a catastrophic power failure on the landing deck. She turned to look at Jak Velasquez and Borjean Narn, who were sprawled against each other in an exhausted heap.

"What was that?"

The captain's eyes were closed and his chest was heaving but a mad, satisfied smile split his face.

"Red Rhoda."

"What?"

"The for'ard lance. If that doesn't kill the Heldrake, well then nothing we've got will."

"You fired the ships lance at the _Stallion of the Empire_? At us?"

Still sprawled on the floor, Borjean Narn started to laugh, the sound becoming manic until it dissolved into a fit of coughing. "You mad bastard. I need a drink."

Maternin paced around the confines of the fire bunker, gently pressing against the door console. It was dead. Their vox had died out too. "We're trapped in here. We're probably buried under multiple tonnes of rubble, I could estimate how much if I knew-."

"It doesn't matter." Jak cut her off. Slowly, he eased himself off the deck, wincing at the pain. "If we've killed it, then Al Dessi knows to come look for us in here. They'll dig us out in a while."

"And if we haven't killed then my preference is to stay in here until it gets bored," Borjean added, removing a hip flask from his pocket.

"Sir, if I may ask, how did you know that the fire bunker would survive a hit from a lance?"

"Garian Sykarin. He told me that it had happened to him once."

"You risked all our lives on one man's story?"

Borjean grunted and answered for the captain. "Any one of us would trust Sykarin with our life. And he was right, wasn't he? The bunker held up."

"What do we do now?"

"We wait," Jak said. He sat down on the edge of the terminal and fished a cigar out of his pocket, along with a hand-lighter. He didn't light the cigar though, not yet. Perhaps, Maternin thought, he was sensible enough not to waste their limited supply of oxygen. Or perhaps he had just had enough of fire for a while.

They sat in silence. Maternin tried to wrap her head around the events of the last twenty-four hours. From their first steps aboard the Stallion of the Empire to now, it had been a dizzying whirr of action that had brought her to this place, alone with these two men who had saved her life and nearly killed her, buried under wreckage of a sacred ship that she'd helped to damage and desecrate, praying to the Machine God that an abomination of construction she had once thought to be only a myth had been destroyed by lance fire.

"How did we get here?" She asked, and suddenly realised that she was speaking out loud.

"Getting philosophical, red robe?" Borjean grinned.

"Why did you come on this voyage?" Maternin heard the words coming from her mouth and was surprised. She wouldn't usually have the nerve to ask such a question. Velasquez seemed surprised as well.

"Come again?"

"Why are you here? Why did you set off on this voyage to the far edge of the Empire?"

"Star-faring is the family business, I suppose. My father was a Solar Admiral."

"Why take the Letter of Marque?" Borjean pretended to be studying the detailing on his hip flask but Maternin could tell from his expression that he was intently interested in her line of questioning. Feeling emboldened she continued.

"My father had… enemies in the Admiralty. They didn't like him, but he was a hero to millions so they couldn't get rid of him. Then his children got in the way."

"How did they get in the way?"

Jak sighed and gave a weary smile. "I was a lieutenant on board a vessel that came through a Warp storm and our captain went mad. The senior officers had to relieve him of his duties. He fought back, he died. There was a court martial. I was cleared of any wrong-doing but it was a blow to father. Worse was what my sister did. She became involved with a cult that was declared heretical. The Inquisition got involved. Father banished her to save us the shame but the damage was done. His enemies struck."

"By giving him the Letter of Marque?"

Borjean took up the story now. "They couldn't destroy the man honourably, the cowards, so they did the next best thing. They took the Navy away from him." He held up a hand. "Ah, I know it might sound a trifling thing, but to a man like Admiral Velasquez it was the same as taking away your fancy red robes."

"Father was determined to make the most of it though. He invested all of the family money into this venture, sold all our holdings, and took out incredible, astronomical loans. He put everything we had into this one opportunity. He was going to apply for a Warrant of Trade upon our return, create a merchant dynasty. He never did anything by halves."

"And your sister?"

"Huh?"

"Your father took you along on this voyage. What happened to your sister?"

"Retta, her name was Amaretta. But we always called her Little Retta. I don't know. She disappeared when she found out the Inquisition were after her. I wanted to stay and help her but father needed me with him. She's gone now, like Mustek and like father."

The expression on Jak's face was all too familiar to Maternin. She'd had no mirror on the _Yolenna Symphony_ , but she was sure that her face had taken on a similar age and haunted expression since she'd first met the captain. Captain Velasquez was a man haunted by the ghosts of his family. She felt almost overwhelmed by the urge to tell him that she understood, that she knew what he was going through. But she knew that she couldn't.

"What brought you to the stars, little red robe?" Borjean asked gently. It was some time before she answered.

"It was family for me as well," she said. "My mother and father were… experimentors. It is not a term that translates well into Gothic. It means priests who follow the path of Trial and Error. Who try to improve our machine spirits, maximise efficiency and effectivity through action and analysis."

Borjean and Velasquez exchanged glances. "Sounds worthwhile," the captain hazarded.

"It is extremely worthwhile. It is a holy cause. But not all in the Adeptus Mechanicus see it that way. For some, like Dhukov, it borders on heresy."

"So, what trial and error brought you out to the far edges of the galaxy?"

Maternin hesitated. Dhukov had discovered the truth of their mission and held it over her head, but he was dead now. Why risk sharing her secret with others when she didn't need to? But some part of her felt that she did need this. She thought of the guilt that she still felt over her mother's death, the ghost that she had seen during the Warp storm. Even though it had really been Timmon setting out to torture her some more, guilt and the awful magiks of the Immaterium had made her see her mother in that moment.

She decided then and there to tell them the whole truth.

"We were there to trade with the Eldar."

The cigar dropped out of the captain's hand. "You what?"

"It was my fault," and the words began to tumble out in a rush. "We had been conducting absolutely secret research into the Kabalite Eldars' ability to interfere with electronic system. I made a discovery in my work that allowed us to contact the Eldar. We had hoped to trade with them, share in their knowledge. It was sanctioned by our Forge World, but in total secrecy, due to the attention it would gain from the conservative factions."

"Not to mention the bloody Inquisition," Borjean muttered.

"The Kabalite Eldar sent us coordinates, and we set out on a single ship, no Skitarii, only Genitari crew and researchers. We met the Eldar as planned, and my father was preparing to conduct the trade. But it was a trap. The whole thing. Two more ships joined the first. The Eldar we were trading with killed my father in front of me."

Maternin was shaking. Her life, her training, her faith and her construction had all served to keep emotions at a great distance, cordoned away as irrational and messily organic. The machine did not cry, the machine did not rage. But now, as she retold her story, grief and rage threatened to overwhelm her.

"We had kept all our research into Eldar technology on the ship. As they slaughtered the crew, my mother and I worked to compile and transmit the data, so that one day our fellow priests might find it and continue the Omnissiah's work. My mother died protecting me so that I could finish the transmission. She died trying to protect my discovery. _Because_ of my discovery."

Maternin looked up at her captain, through eyes that were mechanically unable to produce tears. She heard her voice thick with bitterness and regret as she said, "I am a heretek. I confess my crimes to you, Captain. We were seduced by the knowledge of the alien, had contact with the alien, and foolishly allowed the loss of two ships because we trusted the alien."

A drawn-out silence, settled over the group. Borjean took a long swig from his flask, but seemed uncommonly without comment.

"I might have a different view of heresy than most," Jak said at last, "But I don't see a problem, here. You wanted to know how the Eldar can scramble our etherics? I'd kill for that knowledge. You trusted an alien? I owe my life to an alien. I've fought alongside Jestross long enough to know that humans aren't the only ones with something to teach the galaxy about kicking arse."

"But-"

"No," the captain said firmly. "All that matters is what you do and why, not what you look like or what you believe. At least, that's all that matters on _my_ ship. You've done more than enough to earn your place on my crew and that's the end of it."

Borjean grinned his approval and seemed about to speak, when the sounds of clanking came from somewhere above them. The rubble was being shifted. Moments later the vox crackled to life as the system started broadcasting again.

"Captain? Are you there? We're clearing the rubble. Do you copy?"

Jak gave a slight tilt of his head, and a broad grin settled on his face. He put the lho-cigar between his lips and flicked the lighter. "They're going sing stories about us folks," he crowed. "One shot to kill a dragon!"


	26. Part 3- Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

The cows were going to be a problem.

The herd had bunched together into a nervous, stumbling mass, their bellows echoing about the cavernous vaults of the launch bays. They were a skittish group at the best of times, and the ship's head wrangler usually tried to load and offload them only when the launch bays were all but empty. But now a riot of activity had taken hold of the bays as the crew of the _Yolenna Symphony_ prepared to abandon ship. The captain's beef herd were having to learn the hard way that when the crew of an Imperial vessel abandoned ship, everyone had to move in a hurry.

With great difficulty and an above average degree of swearing even for sailors, the cattle were convinced to keep moving onto the heavy lifter ships, but they'd left behind a slick mess on the decks that made the Sentinel pilots nervous about loading _their_ cargo. No one wanted to tell the captain that they'd crashed one of the ship's bipedal war machines because it had slipped in manure.

Jak watched the preparations with some amusement from his vantage point on the catwalk. Sailors nodded and touched their forelocks deferentially as they passed him, but most were too consumed by the controlled chaos of moving the ships supplies across to the _Stallion of the Empire_ to pay much attention to their captain amongst them. Mechwrights hauled piles of salvaged ship components to restore those failing on the Stallion. Tech priests piloting power loaders carried loads that wobbled dangerously over the heads of sailors darting below. Carto-artifices and librarians stumbled along with piled armfuls of charts, scrolls and books from the ship's collection. Stewards and priests jostled over every crate as it loaded, arguing over whether counting the contents or consecrating them should take priority. Armsmen patrolled with shock prods, keeping a keen eye out for light-fingered opportunists. Weaving in between everybody's legs were the ships 'plasma monkeys', the youngest children of the crew. They carried coils of wires, handfuls of candles, potted plants and boxes of rivets, anything they could fine to prove their worth to the ship.

As he watched, Jak reflected on the miracle, that not a single crew member had declined the opportunity to join the _Stallion of the Empire_ and attempt the dangerous voyage home. Certainly, they'd had little choice in the matter if they'd wanted to live, but it was more than that, he thought. The tale of the single shot from the Yolenna's lance that felled a Heldrake had spread through the ship like wildfire; already the older sailors had changed their tune about 'Jakky Young Crow' and were making favourable comparisons to his father's exploits. There was a great deal of tension within the crew still, and Jak knew that it could still threaten to bubble over in the draining weeks to come, but for now those who had only a week ago been at each other's throats seemed willing to work together.

It had been as busy a week as Jak could recall in his life. In the battle against the Heldrake he'd sustained a broken rib, a fractured cheek, second-degree burns to his arms and back, and a gash in his scalp that had required twelves stitches. The Chief Chirugeon had recommend five days bedrest; Jak had allowed himself five hours.

They'd returned to the _Stallion of the Empire_ –entering via a loading deck as the command deck launch bay had been almost completely destroyed by the lance fire Red Rhoda- and attacked the Ryleth in force. The chaos-worshipping xenos had been driven from the Enginarium and slaughtered in great numbers. Many had escaped and were holed up in one of the Stallion's cargo holds, where the ship's sensors and automated defences could not aid the armsmen in hunting them. Jak was happy to leave them there for now, and had ordered that section of the ship sealed off and warded with purity seals. The loss of the portside cargo hold was not too great; there was always the starboard hold, and the _Yolenna Symphony_ did not have enough supplies left for both holds to be needed.

With the _Stallion of the Empire_ under his control, Jak had sent in the tech priests. Lattemba's people had worked all shifts conducting the necessary repairs to get the galleon flying again. Adamantium had been stripped from the Yolenna, melted down and recast in her foundries, to be plated onto the Stallion's damaged hull. Cogitator circuitry, ceramite insulation, thorium wells, plasma conduits and countless other components had been scavenged and inserted where they were needed, using only the most rudimentary rituals to sanctify the repairs. A team had been sent deep into the ship's Warp Drive to investigate her core; strangely they had reported back that it was in perfect working condition and the Stallion's Warp Drive and Gellar Fields were as functional as any they'd ever seen.

The newly designated Chief Enginseer, Lattemba, had personally orchestrated the consecration of the freshly installed machine spirits and had spent some time communing with and soothing the Stallion's ancient spirits. They were not corrupted, he had explained to Jak, but wary and agitated after centuries suffering the deprivations of the Immaterium. However, he had added, these ancient ships had been designed for long range exploration and voidfaring; their spirits were resilient and were recovering quickly under the tender ministrations of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

All the machine spirits were responsive except for the gunnery spirits; Lattemba was unsure if they would ever be able to quell those guarded, volatile spirits of lance and cannon, at least not until the ship was properly restored by the priests of a great Fleet World such as Mars or Ryza. They would not even respond to the captain's mind, although Jak had spent many an hour trying to cajole the Stallions guns to let him operate them. If he was going to fly the ship back to the Lysander System and then on to Calixis, he would have to rely on outrunning rather than outgunning any enemies that they encountered.

Still, with great satisfaction, Jak reflected on the fact that he had done the seemingly impossible. Stranded out in the uncharted fringes of the galaxy, facing desperate mutineers, alien horrors and daemonic abominations, he had found a way home and a priceless treasure.

"Not too bad, Velasquez," he said to himself.

"Indeed, Sir," came the deferential reply at his shoulder. Jak managed not to start, but he had not heard Al Dessi coming.

"Ms Al Dessi," he greeted her. "How go the preparations for the crew transfers?"

"The deck wardens have all in order, Sir, and we can begin a full transportation by the next watch."

"And the crew will come?"

"All of them, Sir. _The Yolenna Symphony_ will be fully abandoned."

Jak looked away for a moment, considering that.

"Any regrets?" He asked, to cover his own emotions.

"Only one, Sir." Al Dessi was looking at the bustle of activity below them, the sea of earnest, tired, grubby faces. "We never caught the bastards who murdered the Admiral."

The Admiral. A man who had risked everything to purchase the first ship that had truly belonged to him, named it for lost wife, and never lived to see his son abandon that ship to the mercies of the void. Jak had no choice of course, but still, he wondered what his father would have thought. Jak recalled the conversation that he'd had with Maternin Shyendi in the fire bunker; perhaps he would forever be grappling with his father's legacy.

"You have my permission to begin the crew transfers," Jak said, keeping his voice gruff to hide the sudden swell of emotion in him.

"Yes, Sir."

A blur of black wings overhead caught Jak's eye. Even the crows were preparing the leave the ship.

The next crewmember who came to him was Merry Servant #7. The servitor looked almost nervous as it approached, as much as any lobotomised cyborg could show any emotion. There was a wideness to its eyes and a half pause in its voice. The Merry Servants were blasphemies, some muttered, but they were bloody useful blasphemies and the Admiral had never been one to turn his back on a sailor who could follow orders perfectly, never spoke back and would do all the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs on the ship without question.

"This one has requests and, or, clarifications to make of Designate: Captain," Seven said, in the stumbling formal language the servitors always used when they were out of their linguistic comfort zones. Repeating orders and performing diagnostic checks tended to be the limit of the conversational skills. Requests and (or) clarifications were unusual. Jak turned to give the servitor his full attention.

"What is it, Seven?"

"Ship, Designate: _The Yolenna Symphony_ is to be abandoned. All non-vital components are regarded as, quote, 'dead weight'. My clarification: Are Merry Servants dead weight? My request: Merry Servants to be transferred to new ship. Opportunity to seek more existence through service is an imperative, both biological and mechanical."

Jak took a few moments to make sure had understood what the servitor was saying. Then he smiled. He clapped Merry Servant #7 heartily on its shoulder. It made a clanging sound and Jak had to shake the sting out of his hand. "You're worried that you're not coming along with us, Seven! Of course not! You're always welcome with me, all your people. You're crew."

The Merry Servant did not smile, or sag with relief, but Jak could see a loosening of its shoulders, an ever-so subtle release of tension.

"Thank you. Clarification brings thought comfort. This one had been informed servitors would not be a requirement aboard new vessel."

Something was nagging Jak's mind, a half-remembered thought, but one of great importance. An epiphany lurked in his subconscious like a monster fish beneath the ocean waves, but he couldn't land it, couldn't bring it to the surface.

"You're not the same as the other servitors. I thought you knew that." Jak smiled still, but distantly now, working the line of thought carefully. The Merry Servant nodded and thanked him again, turning to leave, but Jak took Seven by the shoulder. "You're not the same as the other servitors."

Merry Servant #7 looked at Jak vacantly, unsure of how to respond. But Jak was following his own momentum now.

"You're not the same as the other servitors!" He repeated, almost yelling in his excitement. "Seven, you're on your own network aren't you? You and all the Merry Servants. The night my father was killed, were any Merry Servants working on the command decks?"

"Yes, sir. Four of the Merry Servants were assigned tasks on the command decks."

"The logs were wiped from the primary servitor network that night. Do you still have them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"This one was not asked, sir."

"Seven," Jak said, practically shaking the servitor. "Do you know who gave the order to dim the command deck lumens directly prior to my father's assassination?"

"Yes, sir. Authorisation code belonged to: Master at Arms, Officer Garian Sykarin."

 **=][=**

Jak ran the passageways of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , a man possessed. Later, those closest to him would ask what was going through his mind in those first moments of awful knowledge. He would answer honestly; nothing. He ran without thought, without even attempting to process the enormity of the betrayal. He was running away as much as he ran to.

But still he ran, and his running brought him to the Medicae Bay. And it was at that point that he realised he was running to hear a denial. To hear an explanation. Someone had taken Sykarin's authorisation codes, that was the most obvious explanation. But the servitors logged identities, not codes. Had someone posed as Sykarin? Of course. What would be better cover than the Master at Arms, a senior officer and a man who had followed Oberon Velasquez as long as any on the ship?

In the Medicae Bay, the officers' vault was empty, the beds unmade. In a fit of madness, Jak threw over the bed and tossed the medical equipment aside, searching frantically for the Master at Arms.

"Bloody hell, captain. You lost your wheel?" Stieg was in the doorway, balancing gingerly on his new stump, a two pronged, cheap metal prosthetic plated to the remnants of his thigh. Jak swung on him, finger outstretched.

"Where Sykarin?" He barked. Stieg looked nonplussed.

"He said he was going for a walk about an hour ago, said he'd been in bed too long and needed to take care of things."

Jak stormed out the room, almost knocking Stieg over in his, but his mind was starting to work properly now, pieces of a long dormant puzzle clicking into place and he turned back to the old Gunnery Master.

"What's happening, sir?" Stieg asked. "What's got you so fired up?"

"Do you know what Azakhil means? Does that word mean anything to you?" Stieg gawped at him.

"Are you serious, captain?"

"Stieg," Jak said in warning tones and the old man hurried to explain.

"It's a town, sir. Was a town, I mean. That story I told you, about the reavers and the sailors getting captured and all. That was Azakhil. That's where Sykarin and all the rest got taken. What's this mean, captain? What's going on?"

Jak didn't answer. He was already running again.

 **=][=**

Jak received a vox from Reliquary Jate as he was leaving the Medicae Bay.

"Sir, I have some information that I need to present to you."

"It will have to wait, Ms Jate," Jak said into his microbead.

"It is in regards to the private vox network that we discussed. I've recorded a new message."

Jak did not break stride as he processed that information. "Meet me at my cabin."

Borjean was on duty, he was the only person Jak could trust to have by his side when confronting Sykarin. Jestross wouldn't understand, he might try to kill the Master at Arms on the spot. The HateFearLove might drive him to madness. Jak wasn't sure that he could trust himself, but Borjean would know what to do.

Strangely, there was no guard posted at the door of the great cabin. Jak drew his sidearm and kicked open the door to find Borjean sprawled on the carpet. He ran to the man's side. "Borjean, no!" But Borjean's was warm to the touch, and when Jak shook him he belched a blast of grog-stinking air into Jak's face.

Jak pushed away from him in disgust. Borjean had gone back to his old habits since the Warp Storm, and had gotten worse after the Heldrake, but Jak had never expected this; a drunken stupor whilst on duty. He kicked out at the man's flanks in frustration but Borjean barely roused.

Jak left quickly, leaving Borjean insensible on the floor. Jate was arriving as he closed the door; the Master of Etherics looked flushed and out of breath. "Another message, Sir," she panted.

"They're meeting." Jak said, and Jate nodded enthusiastically.

"One demanded the meeting, sounded very forceful about it. Not aboard the Yolenna though."

"The Stallion?"

"Aye, 4-25-A, the other one said that was the only place they'd meet."

"The cargo holds? That's right where we've sealed off access. Damn him! Ms Jate, I want you to arrange two squads of armsmen. Have Shadlo and Worral lead them, they know the ship best." He was already setting off

"What about you, Sir? Where will they meet you?"

"I'm not waiting. They can meet me on the Stallion."

"Sir!" Jate protested, but she did so to his back. Jak was not waiting for anyone.

 **=][=**

The lifter pilot hadn't asked questions when the captain had him take off for the _Stallion of the Empire_ with only a half-full hold. Jak didn't speak a word on the voyage over, but stared silently through the viewport into the void, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Lattemba was coordinating the crew who were already on board the Stallion, and greeted his captain effusively on arrival. Jak didn't waste time on formalities or explanations.

"Have you seen Sykarin?"

"Indeed, sir, not long ago. He said he wanted to inspect the security of the sealed sections of the ship. I offered him a guard but he…" Lattemba finished his sentence to the empty space when Jak has been standing, "didn't want one."

Jak's hurried down tight, dimly lit passageways, moving downwards, deck after deck. The path to Frame 25 of the cargo holds was a not a well traversed one, and lacked the ostentatious design of the more public areas of the ship. Its passageways were cramped and utilitarian. On the fourth deck, he followed a passageway for approximately two hundred metres, slowly down as he came closer to the meeting place, trying to soften the sound of his boots on the metal decking. He tried to rehearse in his mind the confrontation with his mentor and Master at Arms, but the words slipped away from him. Some part of his still rejected the very idea of betrayal, was able to even comprehend confronting Sykarin.

The passageway met at distribution junction, where five corridors met around a wide, circular space, bare but for a statue of the Emperor, his sword outstretched to the deck above. In the shadow of the statue, Garian Sykarin stood, facing away from the light of a single flickering lumen, his back turned to Jak. The old man had put his uniform on, and was fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. His body looked as spindly and ravaged as Jak remembered but his senses had not dulled. He spun around as he heard Jak approach.

The look on his face was a fear Jak had never expected to see on the hold man. Not fear for his life, but fear of disgrace, fear of shame. Danger had never unmanned Garian Sykarin, but perhaps guilt could do what physical threat had been unable to. Something in his expression outraged Jak, and he strode out of the darkness.

"You killed him!" Jak roared. "You killed my father!"

"Boy," Garian said. He raised his hands, almost in supplication, leaning forward to Jak. "I can explain."

Jak shot twice from the hip, whipping his sidearm from his holster and driving two lasbolts into Sykarin's midsection before the old man could so much as reach for his own weapon. He collapsed to the ground with the softest of gasps.

Feeling suddenly numb, barely comprehending what he had just done. Jak let the gun drop to the deck. It hit the metal with a clang that echoed down the passageways, and then there was silence. Jak fell to his knees. He watched the life seep out of Garian Sykarin, in the shadow of the Emperor of Mankind.

The silence was broken only a few moments later by the sound of a single pair of hands clapping slowly.

"Oh well done, brother," a sharp female voiced chided. "The one man who was going to explain the whole thing to you and you've gone and killed him. That's so very like you." The voice sounded exasperated, perhaps even a little amused. It was a voice that was distinctly familiar to Jak

Jak stared, dumbfounded, as his sister stepped out of the shadows and looked down at him.

"Retta?"

 **=][=**

 **=][=**

 **=][=**

 **End of Part 3**

 **=][=**

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 **=][=**

 **Next: Part 4- The Betrayal at Lysander**

* * *

 **Jak Velasquez has defeated a Heldrake, salvaged an ancient treasure galleon and discovered his father's assassins. But his challenges are far from over, as he must decide what to do about the awful truth behind the Velasquez family killings, a truth that could tear apart his fragile crew just as they prepare to set off on the dangerous voyage back to Imperial Space. And that threat is nothing compared to what awaits them upon their return to the Lysander System. The first great adventure of Jak Velasquez will conclude in Part 4 of** _ **The Very Devil of the Stars…**_

* * *

Authors' Note: Three parts down, only one to go! I cannot thank enough everyone who takes the time to read, and particularly everyone who's left a review. The story will be going on hiatus again so I can give some focus to other projects, but it will recommence in the New Year with the fourth and final part of the story.


	27. Part 4- Interlude

**Part 4**

 **The Betrayal at Lysander**

The spider hung from a single thread of silk, visible only when it caught the light, so that for the most part the little arachnid looked to be simply hovering in place, rising and falling as if on its own grav-plate. Jak watched it in fascination as it sunk low behind his father's head, before darting up towards its web again. His father showed no awareness of the slow dance occurring behind him, speaking in the same businesslike tone he applied to the entire conversation.

"Of course, the ship is an Enforcer class, only recently decommissioned although the paperwork was apparently lodged three hundred years ago. She is sound and well-suited to our needs, and Calixis has had no interest in carriers for some time now. We will get her for a good price."

"Yes, Sir," said Jak.

"Your brother will captain the _Siren's Wail_. By the grace of the Emperor he was out of the system when your sister's folly took place and has escaped any undue embarrassment."

"Yes, Sir."

"You will resign your commission, and serve aboard my flagship as a senior officer."

"No." the word was out of Jak's mouth before he had even registered his father's statement.

"No?" Oberon Velasquez could not keep the surprise off his face.

"I am an officer in the Imperial Navy. Sir."

"Do you forget that you have been court-martialed, boy?"

"I was acquitted!"

"You think that matters? At this time, in this Battlefleet? Whatever hope you had for your naval career, Amaretta has dashed it!"

Retta. The news had been like a knife to the heart. Accused of heresy, hunted by the Inquisition. When Jak had last seen her, he'd expressed his concerns about the so-called Lords of Shadow, a clutch of pampered nobility playing at death cultists. But Retta had never been likely to take advice from her twin brother, and his time in the void had created a distance between them that he did not understand and could not bridge. She had laughed in his face, told him that he'd never understand the secrets that she was learning.

And now she was gone.

Jak rose to his feet. Although he was not in uniform, he snapped to attention in front of his father and superior officer. "With due respect, sir. I am a lieutenant in an Imperial Navy. I serve the God Emperor of Mankind and his fleets of war."

Oberon stood slowly. Jak recognised the tactic, the long traversal around the edge of the desk, giving you all the time in the world to reflect on your mistake and its consequences. But he was a boy no longer, and he would not cower from his father.

Oberon's fist struck like a snake, catching Jak on the jaw. He staggered, but grabbed onto the edge of the desk. He did not fall. Grimacing against the pain, feeling the tang of blood in his mouth he lifted his head to meet his father's eyes.

"I am an officer in the Imperial Navy."

"You're a Velasquez," Oberon growled, looming over his son. "First, foremost and forever. You'll serve where I tell you to serve, as a bloody armsman if I decide it. Test me boy, see if I'm bluffing."

=][=

 _Author's Note: And Jak returns for the fourth and final part of this story! Apologies to anyone who's been following this and hoping for an earlier return. I wanted to hold off until I knew I'd be able to release the chapters on a regular schedule again. The first chapter of Part 4 will be published next week, with the final chapters coming out at fortnightly intervals after that._


	28. Part 4- Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

"Retta."

Jak slumped to the deck next to the corpse of his former Master at Arms. He slumped because his legs suddenly seemed to have stopped working properly. The exhaustion of the last few weeks had hit him all at once. Here, deep in the cargo hold of the long-abandoned _Stallion of the Empire_ was a face he had never expected to see again _._ The sudden appearance of his lost sister was too much for him to process. "Retta," he repeated, feeling slow and stupid.

"Yes, you've said that a few times now," his sister said. She stood very still, watching Jak with an eyebrow cocked. "You're going to need to expand the vocabulary a little if we're going to have a conversation."

"What are you doing here?"

Retta sneered. "Isn't that much plain? I'm taking in the sights." It was a voice so familiar to Jak, the taunting, teasing tones of a sister who had always thought of herself as faster, smarter and stronger than her twin brother. Jak growled but before he could even move, Retta had slipped a pistol from its holster at the waist of her filthy, tattered voidsuit. Jak raised his own weapon instinctively and the two siblings found their eyes locked over the barrels of the guns.

"No jokes, Retta," Jak growled. "Just answers."

"You know the answers, you just don't want to face them. I came here for the same reason you did, brother, only you got the job done before me. Sykarin needed to die."

"Sykarin killed our father."

"I know, Jak." 

"But my question is: how do you know?"

Retta took a breath, and in that moment, Jak saw some of the confident façade leave her, a tiny flash of genuine trepidation. She was deciding whether to lie to him. He felt his fingers tighten around pistol. The smile slowly spread across Retta's face again, deliberate and provocative.

"I know because it was my idea. And don't ask me why, Jakobian Velasquez," she added in a rush. "Don't you dare ask why. _He left me to the Inquisition_. To their interrogators and flagellants. But I escaped them all, and then I was forced to spend months after bloody month hiding aboard the _Siren's Wail_ amongst the mutants and the sewerage and the radioactive waste. All because he decided he could disown his daughter for the pettiest of crimes."

"They said you were a heretic." Jak said quietly, feeling dreamlike as the horror slowly seeped into him. He had just killed Garian Sykarin. His sister had just confessed to murder. "Father said you were performing warp sorcery."

"Did he? And did you believe him?" The memories of those frantic days came back to Jack. He had survived a warp-storm, a mutiny, and a mad captain, only to arrive in Scintilla to find that he was being court-martialled and the Inquisition intended to investigate his family. The court-martial he had expected, a trial was necessary after any mutiny, but to find Amaretta accused of heresy had been too much to comprehend. He had agreed to his father's version of events with little resistance.

"I didn't know what to think," Jak said, lowering his gun an inch. Retta took a step towards him. "You hid aboard the _Siren's Wail_?" He asked.

"Aye," she didn't meet his eyes. "It was a nightmare."

"How did you survive?"

"The mutant clans. First, I gained their trust, then I gained control of the strongest clan. It wasn't easy, but I was determined that what had been done to me would not be an end, that I would not be brought low by our father's actions. I would survive the depravity and indignity and emerge more powerful than ever."

And there was the rub of it, Jak realised, hearing the steel in her voice. Whatever emotions he felt about seeing his sister alive and in one piece, she was not here for a family reunion.

"You wanted to take the ships."

"I have a destiny, brother, you've always known that about me. I won't see father, or Mustek or any of you deprive me of that destiny. The ships were the least that he owed me for his betrayal."

"Betrayal?" Jak barked in disbelief. "You killed your own family!"

"I was already dead to you. It seemed only just to return the favour. I sought out crew members amongst the _Siren's Wail_. The weak minded, the venal, the mad. Men such as the Purser. When my influence amongst the underdeck and the crew became palpable, I knew that father would send armsmen in to remedy the situation, never realising that he was fighting against his own daughter. That was when I would have my opportunity."

"You confronted Sykarin. You thought you could turn him. That means you knew about Azakhil. You knew that father had abandoned him? How?"

"I saw in him the same rage and thirst for revenge that I felt. I recognised it in an instant, like I could see the flames flickering in his heart, reduced to barely an ember by the suffocating pressure of duty. I can't explain it you brother, can't explain how I can see. But I stoked that ember into a burning fire, until Sykarin was ready to do anything I asked of him."

"So, you turned him against our father. Against Mustek." _Against me_. But Jak couldn't say it out loud, not yet. He did not want to believe that he had been some part of Amaretta's murderous schemes.

"Of course I did! They never gave a damn for us, Jak! Mustek was grown before either of us could talk, he never cared for us and he never would have let us inherit what we deserved. We were the youngest, we needed to take what was ours!"

"You took! You, not us!"

"That's right!" Retta took a step forward again, but there was a wild gleam in her eyes now. "Me. I had the Master of Arms and the Chief Enginseer backing my play. We could have pinned the whole thing on you and I could have claimed the entire fleet for myself. Because you always tolerated the shit that father dumped on you and I was the only one who fought back!"

"By murdering your family!" The fury in Jak's voice seemed to finally reach Retta, she blanched as if struck. Dropping to a crouch, mere inches from him, she reached out almost tentatively.

"Jak, please, look at me brother. I needed to be ruthless. Our destinies require a little ruthlessness. Look at where you are. You didn't do anything to earn this Jak, it was just luck, just sheer dumb luck that brought you to the _Stallion of the Empire_. But luck alone won't be enough to hold onto it."

"What are you saying?" Jak shook his head. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. What happened to you, Retta?"

"Just look at how much you've lost already, brother. You say you care about father but look at what you've done to his legacy. What's left? A sword that you stole from his corpse, a ship that you're about to abandon and a Letter of Marque that you wasted using to fight someone else's war. I can help you, Jak, we can stem the bleeding."

Listening to her voice, tones at once both inveigling and condescending, Jak could so easily imagine how the conflicted soldier Garian Sykarin was drawn to do her bidding. He tried to block her out, letting the hypnotic rhythm of her words wash over him as he allowed his attention to drift to the slow creaking of the ship, the distant hum of its engines, the familiar _Tck-tck_ of the Ryleth in the walls.

Retta had no plan, he realised, there had never been any plan. Just the sheer anarchic energy of reaction, hurling herself at every new obstacle, certain that she could corrupt or manipulate the situation to her advantage. Just like he had been doing.

Seeming to recognise a resolution occurring within Jak, Retta placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can't do this on your own, Jak. You're not made for it. What have you accomplished?"

"I killed a dragon," he said, softly, angling his pistol back up towards his sister's face. "That's not too bad."

He fired, and she screamed, throwing herself away from him. She landed on her knees, white faced with shock and rage as she glared at her brother, but he wasn't looking at her. He'd blown the head off the Ryleth that had been stalking up behind her, and now watched warily as two more moved to join it.

"Damn you," Retta screamed at the xenos. "Not now!" Infuriated that her attempts to persuade her brother to her side had been interrupted, she swung around and fired her own gun wildly. More Ryleth were appearing from every corridor, dozens of them, chitinous limbs clacking against the decks and slit-mouths pulsing with excitement as they attacked.

Jak and Retta rose and instinctively moved to stand back to back, firing into the mass of xenos. Las-fire tore limbs and raked great burn scars across writhing bodies but they were hopelessly outnumbered. One of the Ryleth hurled itself at Jak and he stumbled under the creature's weight, pistol dropping from his hands as he instinctively brought his arms up to protect against the creature's bladed limbs. He felt the searing, steaking pain as it slashed at his forearms, heard the shrieking of his sister, but all he could see was the Ryleth's monstrous head, all grinding maxillae and emotionless compound eyes. And then he felt a sudden, sharp pressure against his face, a pain unimaginable and a blood-soaked blindness.

Retta's screams were growing distant, but there were other sounds now, shot-cannons and shouted orders. Jak couldn't see anything but light and shadow, could only feel pain and the weight of the Ryleth. There were more of them now, bearing him to the deck, trying to drag him down, trying to carry him away. He struggled, but he was growing weaker and the pain made him cry out like he was a child again, drowning in this mass of alien flesh. Pressure and suffocation overwhelmed him.

His final thought came to him with strange inspiration and clarity. _This is what it would have felt like, if father had ever followed through on his threats to vent me from an airlock_.

 **=][=**

Maternin stood meekly, which was not difficult for her, eyes downcast, face neutral. Through all the chaos and frantic action that had followed discovery of the Stallion of the Empire, her crime had not been forgotten, her judgement only deferred. She stood before the Board of Judgement now.

The charge was murder, for her act of self-defence against the Lachrimallus Timmon. Although countless killings had occurred during the mutiny, a blanket amnesty had been applied and none of the mutineers were being brought before the board. Perhaps to make up for this display of lenience, any crimes committed before and after the mutiny were being treated with some severity.

As murder of an overseer was one of the most serious crimes aboard the ship, Maternin's judgement waited upon a hundred petty squabbles and misdemeanours that needed to be presided over first. She risked a glance up as Ravenna Al Dessi pronounced the sentence of a week without rations and a year without grog for a crewman accused of hoarding. He jutted his chin out stoically at the denial of rations but upon hearing the word grog he moaned and cried out. His mates needed to come forward and drag him away as he fell to his knees and pleaded for reprieve.

Al Dessi's face was grim, and grey with fatigue. Maternin was sure that the past few days must have been exhausting for her, but still she stood tall, implacable in her dedication to her duty. She was the only member of the Board standing; from where she stood, below and in front, the seated members were invisible, hooded in shadow.

"Tech-Adept Maternin Shyendi! Step forward and face your judgement."

Maternin gave a little start as an arms-sergeant acting as bailiff bellowed her name. Her eyes darted towards the yeoman advocatus who was speaking on her behalf. He nodded curtly, and she scurried forward, turning to stand before the board. They sat at a looming, twelve-foot high bench bench, recessed back into the walls with the lumens above it angled to shine their light down on the accused. Looking up, Maternin's eyes had to adjust to the harsh gaze; she was not sure if she would even have been able to see had her eyes been un-augmented. As it was, it took a half-second to adjust, and then for the first time since his nearly fatal encounter with the Ryleth, Maternin saw her captain again.

Jak Velasquez's face was drawn, brown skin sallowed by his near-death experience. Maternin had heard from Archmagos Lattemba that when the rescuers had arrived, a half dozen Ryleth had been attempting to drag the captain down the corridor, presumably to feast on him in peace. Some had been unable to wait and had torn bloody chunks from his thighs and chest. One of their blade-limbs had raked him across the face, and he now wore a red scarf wrapped at an angle around his head to hide the ruined mess where his right eye had once been. The tip of a scar, still raw and glistening red, could be seen peeking from beneath the scarlet cloth.

Maternin did not know why the captain had been walking alone amongst the cargo holds of the _Stallion of the Empire_. On that point, whether through ignorance or circumspection, Lattemba was quiet.

Jak's face was expressionless. Whatever he and Maternin had been through together, he looked at her now with a captain's gaze. Maternin could see no hint of favour in his one remaining eye. The faces of Al Dessi and Lattemba were the same. They sat silently as the charge against Maternin was read out and the advocatus began his defence.

He spoke plainly, without embellishment or appeals to emotion. Tech Adept Shyendi was a model crewmember, he said, who had repeatedly shown her loyalty to the ship. He briefly described her mistreatment at the hands of Dhukov's minions, including being forced to traverse the ship alone during warp-travel in contravention of standing orders. He presented Timmon as a jealous rival, identifying an easy target to blame for her own failures. He explained the necessity of Maternin's self-defence in the face of Timmon's vicious attack. Self-defence and the madness of the Warp, but not murder, he concluded, and bowed respectfully as he stepped back from the bench.

There was a moment of conference between the three judges. Maternin felt her heart whirring in her chest. She retreated to the coldly rational aspect of her mind, which knew that her case was strong and her judges honest. But still, the moment when Jak himself stood up and declared her free and clear sent her dizzy with relief. She sagged, breathless. Wondering -too long, so the appropriate moment passed- if she should thank the judges for their verdict, she instead allowed herself to be guided away by the advocatus. As she left the Board of Judgement, she glanced back nervously at the last case still to be judged.

 **=][=**

Jak had spent three days in bed, catered to by servitors and medicae savants, but still he felt exhausted. There was no great pain, Borelyle's pills and salves had seen to that, but they did not seem to ameliorate the bone-deep weariness that had seeped into him. Rising for the Board of Judgement had been a necessity -it had been far too long since one had been held- but it did not help his fatigue in the slightest. He had sat through case after interminable case, knowing that he needed to project the full power of the Lord-Captain's authority now more than ever.

Clearing Maternin Shyendi from the charge of murder had been an obvious decision, but a pleasurable one as well. She had shown no hint of emotion on her small pale face as he'd pronounced her free and clear, at least not that he could see from his distant height. Still, he thought he knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn't your typical promethium-blooded tech-priest. She would have felt relief to hear the words said aloud. He was glad that he could offer her that.

The final case was a different matter. Jak tried not to let his feelings show as Borjean Narn was brought before the Board of Judgement.

Narn wore his full dress uniform, buttons gleaming. He stood to attention so that his considerable girth seemed to gently wobble with the tension of its defiance towards gravity. He was sweating as he faced them, anguish and forced sobriety working terrible lines across his face. The arms-sergeant read out the charge.

"Drunkenness, dereliction of duty and failure to defend the body of the ship's Captain. Does the accused recognise the crime?"

"Aye-aye, sirs." Borjean barked at parade-ground pitch.

"Does the accused have anything to say in his defence?" Al Dessi asked. Borjean took a ragged breath.

"No, sirs."

Jak did not look to confer with Al Dessi or Lattemba. A thousand of the crew had been mustered to watch the Board of Judgement convene, and they would take word back to the rest. Jak wanted them to see that this decision had been his alone.

He had been merciful in the wake of the mutiny; mercy had been a necessity. They could not return home without the help of the mutineers. But that mercy, he knew, had reinforced one of the core criticisms of the mutineers. Jak was a boy, they said, not a captain. He could not make the decisions required for the survival of a ship. He could not make the hard choices, he did not have the heart for it.

He thought of his father, and he thought of Sykarin who'd loved and hated the old man. Most of all, he thought of Retta.

 _You can't do this on your own, Jak. You're not made for it._

Borjean Narn was as loyal a bodyguard as a man could ask for. More than that, he'd been a friend to Jak since the moment he'd stepped aboard the _Yolenna Symphony_.He hadn't cared who his father was, he'd liked Jak for Jak. Everyone on board knew who Borjean was and what he meant to the young captain.

"We find the accused guilty," Jak said, willing himself to feel nothing, his voice remorseless. "His sentence is to be flogged around the ship. A dozen lashes on every deck."

 **=][=**

Able, finally, to return to her official duties, Maternin discovered that the carefully managed Adeptus Mechanicus hierarchy, sacred to the Priests of Mars and imperative to the care of the ship, had been all but destroyed in the wake of Dhukov's mutiny. Hundreds of priests had died, including most of the senior Magi. The survivors were split between Lattemba's loyalists and those mutineers who had surrendered when the Heldrake had killed their Archmagos. Seniority of rank meant nothing under Captain Jak's new orders; loyalty determined a tech priest's position now.

Without necessarily understanding how it had happened Maternin found herself promoted to an acting Magos position, coordinating all that was left of the Divisio Animus and preparing the _Stallion of the Empire_ 's machine spirits for void-flight after ten thousand years of waiting. The great towers of the cogitation matrix crackled with electricity that lashed like whips and the air hung heavy with incense as the spirits were respectfully woken and driven to work. Maternin led by example, singing the hymns of wake and restoration until her throat was raw and her voice hoarse.

She met with Lattemba at the end of each watch to report on their progress. The big priest seemed to have been animated by his rise to Archmagos; his eyes fairly glowed and he leapt from station to station with all the speed of the motive force that he worshipped, monitoring every single aspect of the ship's progress. Only one report of Maternin's seemed to disappoint him, and even then, only for a moment.

"I fear that we will never be able to convince the ship's guns to return control back over to the crew," Maternin said. Lattemba pursed his lips and made a deep humming noise, but he did not appear concerned.

"When we return this vessel to Mars the greatest _Exorcist Ordinatus_ in the galaxy will go to work. We will have those guns back with us."

 _But until then we are undefended_ , Maternin thought. _And it is a long way to Mars_. She said nothing, though, and returned tirelessly to her duties.

Maternin needed little sleep, but her rise to unofficial magi-status had given her a cabin to herself, and she spent what little free time she possessed alone, furtively experimenting with the xenos technology that had been taken from the Eldar boarders, what seemed a lifetime ago now. It was disruptor technology, she had ascertained that much. The Eldar had used it to confuse the Yolenna's internal sensor systems, baffling them with ghosts in the auspex and on the vox. Such tech could be invaluable to the Imperium, she knew, if only she could understand how to make it work.

 **=][=**

While Jak had been eighteen hours in surgery and two days recovering, Al Dessi had not rested. She had finalised the preparations to abandon ship, moving everything they would need for the long voyage home onto the _Stallion of the Empire_. Only a few hundred crew remained on board the _Yolenna Symphony_ now, and they had all gathered solemnly to watch the flogging of Borjean Narn.

A flogging around the decks could traditionally take weeks, as the punishment was paraded before every watch, but they did not have time for such formality. Their desperate escape from the far fringes of the Halo Stars aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_ was no sure thing, and every day they waited to depart was one day less of rations, one day less of fuel. So, the remaining Yolennas were brought together all at once, to watch Borjean stripped of his shirt and tied to a whipping post hastily erected on one of the flight decks.

Jak stood in attendance, ramrod straight and staring ahead. The ruin of his eye ached terribly, a hollow, bedevilling pain, and he longed to sleep for a week. He wanted more than anything to not be viewing this display that he had ordered. But, he knew the crew would be watching and that he could show no weakness. Still, as the long lash hummed and cracked, and as the grunts turned to moans and -eventually- screams, Jak found his mind drifting, escaping the cries of his old friend and fixating on the horrors of the last few days.

He brooded on the late Garian Sykarin, sloping around the ship, a shadow of himself. Had he died the night that he had shot Oberon Velasquez, had it been a ghost that had served Jak all those months since, a half-creature, already descending into the hell that he had made for himself? _I know now what sacrifice means_ Sykarin had said. Had he regretted his vengeance? In his moment of victory had he wept and turned away? Was it guilt that had driven him to serve Jak so loyally?

He brooded on his sister, hidden and alone, with only her monstrous ambition and poisonous resentment to guide her. As quickly as she had exploded back into his life she was gone again, as if she had never been. But the truth was that she had always been there on this voyage, directing his steps with her plotting. And always she would be with him, a gnawing absence in his heart. How would he remember her? How would she want to be remembered? _You didn't do anything to earn this Jak, it was just sheer dumb luck._

Retta had wanted him to die on the battlefield, or be shot in the back, but Garian couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd wanted a son, Jak knew; More than anything that the service had stolen from him, Garian most regretted never having a family. That had been his true revenge on the Admiral, to steal his son and make him his own. And then that son had shot him. Father, brother, mentor, sister. All gone. And he was the captain. All that remained to guide the thousands of survivors of the _Yolenna Symphony_ home. He was the captain. Alone.

"Captain?"

With start, he was jerked from his reverie. He turned all the way to his right, still overcompensating for his lack of peripheral vision. His right eye had been unsalvageable, and it would be some time before they returned to civilization where a decent prosthetic could be acquired. Ravenna Al Dessi stood before him, at attention.

"It is done Sir. Shall we cut the prisoner down?" 

"He is a prisoner no longer," Jak said, loud enough for those around him to hear. "Justice has been done, in the sight of his crewmates and the officers of this ship. Mr Narn may return to his duties as soon as he is able."

"Very good, Sir." Al Dessi nodded and two armsmen moved to untie the plaintively moaning Borjean Narn.

"Ms Al Dessi," Jak continued. "Make the final preparation for departure."

"Aye-aye, Sir. Bosun, have them up and dancing, I want to turn this ship over to the priests for the last rites by three bells."

The crew's solemn gawking broke into a flurry of sound and movement as the remaining Yolennas, veterans all, raced to their duties on the bellowed commands of the bosun. Each sailor nodded and touched fists to their chests respectfully as they passed the captain, but Jak barely noticed them. Soon he was alone with Al Dessi on the flight deck. Blood stained the decking around the whipping post, perhaps the last blood that would be shed upon the _Yolenna Symphony_.

"We can return for her one day," Jak said quietly. "We know where she'll be."

"Aye sir, she'll be here waiting for us," responded Al Dessi, but both knew his words for a lie. They would never come back to this forsaken corner of the void.

 **=][=**

The final step in returning the _Stallion of the Empire_ to fully operational status was the restoration of primary power and firing of the main engines. They lacked the manpower and the sacred knowledge for the full rituals required, but Lattemba had done his best, and the ship was responding with an eagerness borne of thousands of years' aimless drifting.

The plasma control unit, twelve-foot tall and thirty long, was lowered by automated systems, whining from millennia of disuse. It was a task that on the _Yolenna Symphony_ would have required a hundred crew to supervise, but here could be performed with only two dozen, anxiously praying and fussing over the process as the great rod slowing descended. Klaxons blared and cycling red lights washed across the hold, the Stallion's machine spirits clearly agitated by the score of safety systems that Lattemba's tech-adepts had turned off to perform this ritual.

The tech priests were swinging censors, sending soothing code in the cogitating system and calling back to the warning klaxons with logarithmic chanting that sounded grating to Jak's ears. He watched the ritual from somewhat of a distance, allowing the experts to do their work unimpeded.

With a jerk, the control unit came to a halt. Tech adepts and savants raced about to their new positions, shouting over each other as they struggled with an unfamiliar ship and hastily prepared rites. Jak glanced over a Lattemba who was supervising the ritual from a point above his priests, exhorting them to greater efforts in his booming voice. Not to be outdone by the Priests of Mars, Confessor Salazar had a small contingent of the ecclesiasty bellowing out hymns to the Emperor, pasting prayer slips to the control unit as it descended and generally getting in the way. Jak murmured an instruction to the nearest steward, suggesting that the Confessor be invited to bless the awakening of the primary reactor from somewhere not directly beneath it. The steward scurried off to communicate with the priest.

Sensing that this was a moment in the process when interruption might be acceptable, Guardsman Farisr stepped forward and cleared his throat gently.

"Sir, I've been asked to present you this letter, Sir." He did not quite meet his captain's eye as he offered it. Jak eyed him suspiciously, and then looked at the letter. He recognised the hand. It addressed him simply by title. _To the Lord Captain._

"Mr Narn did not want to give it to me himself." Farisr kept his eye fixed somewhere past Jak's ear. Jak remember the expression all too well from his days as a junior officer. "Speak freely, man."

"Mr Narn didn't know when he'd be able to leave his bed, sir, and thought you might want to be appointing the new Head of the Honour Guard before departure."

Jak turned Borjean's letter of resignation over in his hands thoughtfully. He was acutely aware of all that he had lost by punishing Borjean. The cheerful sarcasm that had kept him down to earth, the friendship. All that was gone. _You have to do this on your own._

"Tell Mr Narn that his request for reassignment is denied. I believed he was the best man for the job, and I still do. He will have a final chance to prove me right."

"Yes, sir!" Farisr ripped off a salute, thumping the Aquila against his chest and stepped back smoothly to his captain's side. Funny, Jak mused, how quickly one could get used to having an honour guard follow you everywhere.

With a hiss of escaped gas, a circular hatch spiralled open in the decking, revealing an angled shaft that descended into the ship's reactor core. The was an echoing squeal of discontented machinery as the automated systems failed. The control unit teetered, and panicked crew rushed to lash thick wire ropes around it to form a makeshift sling. With quick, experienced actions they rigged up block and tackle to drag the plasma control unit into position. A few dozen more crew arrived to help haul the rod into position to be released into the shaft. The chanting reached a fever pitch. With a great roar of exertion, the sailors hauled and then released in unison. The plasma control unit pitched into the shaft, driving deep into the womb of the ship.

Jak's eyes darted to where Maternin Shyendi fretted over a status screen. There was a pregnant pause, and then she cried out in triumphant binary. Lattemba turned to Jak, and the electro-priest's eyes shone with fervour.

"She wakes, captain. She wakes and she responds!"

Jak felt his fist unclench as cheering broke out across the deck. Despite having been made in the age of miracles, when the Emperor travelled the stars, the _Stallion of the Empire_ trapped far too long in the Warp, ravaged by a daemon-engine, and remained infested with xenos and scarred with the markings of Chaos. In truth, he had been uncertain that she would respond favourably to their actions. Even with the primary reactor operational there was still a great deal of uncertainty ahead. He did not know if they had the numbers to properly crew her, nor if his sailors would still be able to work together in the wake of the mutiny. They had no Navigator, and every jump they took would need to be short, precise and blessed by the God-Emperor himself. Even then it would be months before they returned to the Imperium, and they had no guns with which to defend themselves.

He let none of this doubt enter his voice. "Very good," he called out. "Have the word passed on: we prepare for immediate departure. The voyage continues."


	29. Part 4- Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

It was a long journey home. The _Stallion of the Empire_ flew blind through the Warp, making short jumps of a few dozen lightyears at a time, her survival dependent entirely on her ancient astronavigation engines and the star charts that her original crew had produced. She ploughed through unseen tides that lashed ferociously against the hull and rattled her metal frame, and when it seemed like she could no longer bear the tumult without tearing herself apart, she would spring forth from the psychic morass of the Empyric tides, and give the crew a few days of blessed relief as they restored their bearings and prepared to dive deep into the Warp once more.

The crew were bound together by the desperate need to survive. With so few voidfarers having survived the trials of the _Yolenna Symphony_ , the watches were long and dangerous, and every officer pitched in alongside the rest of the crew to keep the ship sailing. Ecclesiarchical priests took on tasks that had once been the sole purview of tech adepts and sailors who had been considered little more than menials a year earlier were tasked with assignments that would challenge even the most skilled voidfarers. Lives were lost -so many lives- to accidents, to Warp-madness, to the Ryleth who constantly found ways around the hastily erected barriers, snatching screaming sailors from their posts and then retreating back into their hiding places between decks and within the bulkheads.

The crew lived in fear: fear of the Warp, fear of the Void, fear of the Ryleth and the foul taint that still clung to the ship. But their fear brought them closer together, and the ragged band of voidfarers who survived the gruelling journey home soon forgot all the enmities of the past. They were no longer split between mutineers and loyalists but bound together by their shared need to survive and return to the light of the Golden Throne.

They had one thing in their favour; the _Stallion of the Empire_ was well equipped for long journeys. She had fuel haulers and great hydrogen scoops, solar sails and asteroid spikers. When rations ran out, they raided ice worlds and survived for weeks on filtered algae. When xenos ships appeared on the hololith displays they fled, for they were unarmed until the ship's gunnery spirits could be repaired. When the oppressive depths of the Warp threatened to overwhelm their spirits and curdle their dreams, they prayed and sang and roared out encouragement to them until their throats were raw and their heads spinning from the exhaustion. By luck, skill and shear tenacity they endured and after six months of gruelling voyage, the crew of the Stallion, shattered, starving and depleted, found themselves once more in the Lysander system.

 **=][=**

Jak stood on the bridge, staring out with into the void with fierce joy. The darkness, in truth, looked no different from the darkness anywhere else, but they had returned to Lysander. They weren't home, not by a long way, but they had reached the Imperium once more. He had triumphed against all the odds.

He wiped grease from his hands absent-mindedly on the filthy coveralls that he was wearing. He come straight to the bridge from the Gellar bilges, having worked tirelessly alongside his crew for the past six hours to keep the madness of the Warp at bay so that this final translation into realspace could be made.

"Auspex!" he called out. "Fix position and chronometer. Vox, announce ourselves to the good people of Lysander if you would. Let them know that Captain Jak Velasquez has returned."

There was a ragged cheer from the bridge crew, and then a hasty announcement of their identity was broadcast out into the void. Radhati Halksis had never recovered from his coma after encountering the strange psyker in cold storage aboard the Stallion. Without an astropathic choir, they'd had no way to announce word of their survival ahead of time. Now they could at least communicate via the vox, although it would be some hours before the message arrived at Lysander IV and a response could be expected. As Jak considered this, a junior officer of the Etherics team announced their transit time to the Lysander docks as nineteen days.

The first auspex sweeps showed that a great deal had changed in the months since Jak had departed the Lysander system. The shipyards had continued to grow, and it was clear that a new fleet was being outfitted. Drive signatures showed a number of familiar ships, including one that Jak had long thought lost forever.

"That the _Siren's Wail_!" He cried in delight when he saw the readouts. "She survived?"

"It appears so, sir. They have her patrolling the system between Lysanders III and IV, but she on trajectory to return to the shipyards two weeks ahead of us. It is not clear whether or not Captain Yurghan still holds command. We'll not know until we have word from the System Governor."

"I'll want a bloody good explanation if he's not in command," Jak muttered, idly scratching his grimy beard. "I should go clean up," he announced. "It's been too long since I've looked in a mirror, but I doubt I'm in any state to speak to a Queen."

Feeling like a new man and wearing a red silk eyepatch that Jestross had made for special occasions, Jak received the first message in his quarters. To his surprise, the vox came from the Queen directly, and was a fairly curt demand that he state his intentions and, if peaceful, dock at Lysander IV to declare himself with due haste.

Jak played the message three times, trying to get a sense of her state of mind. "She sounds stressed." He said. Jestross gave a complicated shrug of his four shoulders; the xenos had little interest in the nuances of human tone.

Jak personally voxed back sent his compliments and intention to comply, and then ordered the _Stallion of the Empire_ to make due haste towards Lysander IV. He spent the next few hours reading carefully through the auspex reports of the system.

Lysander was apparently still on a war-footing, and it appeared that L'Tarvius had not given up on his crusade. Numerous larger vessels were docked in the great shipyards orbiting Lysander IV, and were being outfitted with lances and cannons. The _Vonaznaniya,_ Maternin's old ship, was amongst them but had apparently not been re-fitted, presumably trying to understand the inners workings of the Adeptus Mechanicus vessel was more trouble than it was worth. However, the transport ships that he had escorted from Calixis were amongst those getting new weaponry, apparently donated to the Crusade by the colonists now that their journey was complete. The colonists themselves appeared to have made their homes on the moons of Lysander III; the Stallion's sensors detected a number of hab-domes that had not been present when they'd last been in-system. In orbit above one of the moons hung the skeletal foundations of an immense orbital cathedral being built, no doubt to serve as Archdeacon Benetor's headquarters.

The asteroid field and the Cobweb where so many ships had been lost remained impervious to scanning, just as the Kabalite Eldar liked it. There were no signs of Eldar vessels in the system, although even the auger arrays of the Stallion would struggle to detect an Eldar ship that did not want to be spotted.

All in all, the scans left Jak feeling disquieted, although he could not exactly say why. Both very little and a great deal seemed to have changed since he had last visited Lysander, and it concerned him that they received no further word from the Queen, nor a response to their hail of _Siren's Wail_. In fact, the first conversation Jak had with someone who wasn't a member of his crew, was with the Rogue Trader L'Tarvius.

L'Tarvius had set out in one of the Unshakeable Will's pleasure barges, flying close enough to the Stallion that they could converse via hololith without too great a delay in the transmission.

"Velasquez, my boy!" He boomed over the vox, his image appearing at full height in Jak's quarters, glowing green and fuzzing with static. "Throne on Terra, that ship! You must have some tale to tell, and I could not wait to hear it. I had to come out to see for myself." Jak couldn't help but smile at the big man's bombast.

"Indeed I do, Lord-Captain L'Tarvius. A tale you won't believe, and I wouldn't blame you if you called me a liar afterwards, but the _Stallion of the Empire_ is my proof. We've been to the very edge of the galaxy and seen wonders and terrors that I can barely begin to describe."

"As I knew you would! I knew you'd take your chances, my boy. When you fled the Crusade, I said to my people, 'That's not the last we've heard of that boy, you mark my words'. And here you are! Proving me right once again."

Jak bristled momentarily at the word 'fled' but let it pass and focused instead on his curiosity regarding the Crusade and the current state of the Lysander system.

"I am mightily glad to see that the _Siren's Wail_ survived the fighting. I had thought her lost. Tell me, does Yurghan still live?"

"The old goat? Oh indeed, indeed he does, he still captains the Siren and is a most devoted servant of Lysander. But the Siren is nothing compared to the ship you now command. I have her seen her like only a handful of times in my life. My dear boy, what's her gunnery like? Lances and broadsides yes? But she seems like she's built for cargo, and worn down quite a bit from her depredations no doubt? How would you rate her condition for fighting?"

"Oh, she's more than capable of holding her own in a fight," Jak lied. "I've never seen her like for calculating firing solutions."

"Capital!" L'Tarvius laughed. "Excellent news. And the timing must have been ordained by the God-Emperor himself for you find us just about ready to go another round with those horrible little Eldar! The Crusade continues, my boy, and you'll have a chance to get that revenge you've no doubt been longing for."

"Crusade? I have no intention of participating in another crusade, my Lord. I will present my compliments to the Queen, take my ships, the Stallion, the Siren and the _Vonaznaniya,_ and I will return to the Calixis Sector in fulfilment of the Letter of Marque."

L'Tarvius laughed good naturedly, but there was an edge in his voice that Jak did not like when he replied. "Well of course you won't my dear boy! Not with that a ship. She is built for glory! How could you simply skulk away with your tail between your legs when the war is not yet won?"

"I assure you, there will be no skulking Lord L'Tarvius. My discovery is too important to waste time in needless scuffles with xenos."

L'Tarvius gave a deep, dissatisfied sigh, moustaches bristling.

"Well we'll wait until you have spoken to the Queen of course. Prettier faces than mine will no doubt prevail to convince you. And you must meet with the Archdeacon as well, he will insist. Separately to the Queen, of course," L'Tarvius gave a telling chuckle. "But if neither of those noble servants of the God-Emperor can convince you to do your duty to the Imperium and redeem your ignoble retreat from the glorious Crusade, then, well I'm sure we can entertain negotiations regarding the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Vonaznaniya_."

"Negotiations, Lord L'Tarvius? You are mistaken, I believe. Those are my ships."

L'Tarvius shook his head, radiating sincerity in his disappointment. "Ah, if only it were that easy. You were declared dead dear boy! And those ships were salvaged, taken in and restored by the good people of Lysander. They are vital contributors to the security of the System. Duty demands that we not give them up cheaply."

"We?"

"Well they have fallen under my command as Lord-High Admiral of the System. A new title in recognition of the fine efforts that so many brave souls have undertaken to save this benighted system from the depredations of the enemy. Simply put, the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Vonaznaiya_ belong to me now, my boy. If you want them back there'll be a price to pay, starting with your assistance in the war." There was a glean in the Rogue Trader's eye as he spoke and there was little to discuss after that. Jak signed off with the barest of formalities to the senior rogue trader, fuming at the disrespect, not to mention the blatant extortion.

His surprise and confusion weren't done, however. A sensor officer meekly informed him that an encrypted transmission had been broadcast from the L'Tarvius barge. Jak played and the hololith sprang to life with the craggy features of Bream Yurghan, captain of the _Siren's Wail._ He spoke quickly, glancing off to the side as it worried that he was being spied upon.

"Lord-Captain Velasquez, if you are alive and well I greet you. There is a man aboard L'Tarvius's ship whom I trust, and I have given him this message to beam to you if he is able. I bring word from the _Siren's Wail_. Our ship survived that disastrous crusade and the crew is as well as can be expected, but we are unable to leave the system for fear of being hunted down and destroyed by the _Unshakeable Will_. We are unable to change course to join you on the orders of Lord L'Tarvius." In the recording, Yurghan paused for a moment, seeming to converse agitatedly with someone out of view.

"Sir, I will speak quickly. This systems is a powder keg, and your arrival may be the match that sets the whole thing off. L'Tarvius is a madman who will drive the entire system economy into freefall in order to win his personal war against the Eldar. The Queen grows tired of his ambition and his spending, but her people have been whipped up into a fervour and she cannot publicly oppose the Crusade, particularly with Archdeacon Benetor openly supporting it. The Archdeacon wants to be recognised as the supreme authority in the system, and L'Tarvius indulges him because it means four new ships for his ramshackle fleet, not to mention millions of religious fanatics willing to throw their lives away on another reckless expedition into the asteroid field. The Queen and the Archdeacon refuse to even speak to each other, and L'Tarvius is currently the only stopping them from going to war against one another. It's an ugly situation, sir, and I believe you are best advised to depart at once before you are drawn into their scheming. I do not believe that they have any intention of letting the _Sirens Wail_ leave with you. In fact, from what I overhead, L'Tarvius believes that the new vessel in your possession would be the final piece in his armada." Yurghan looked over his shoulder one last time, and then returned to speaking, now in a hushed whisper. "That is all I can say, sir, I have spies aboard my own ship, the Rogue Trader's people. Go now and avert disaster, that's all I can say."

With that the message ended and Captain Yurghan's face blinked out of existence. Jak was left to contemplate his warning in grim silence.

 **=][=**

The wardroom was much depleted from Oberon Velasquez's days. Only a dozen senior officers sat at the Stallion's long conference table, loudly debating the ship's next course of action whilst Jak lounged back in his seat and stared at the ceiling above, still deep in thought. He kept half his attention on his officers as his own thoughts slowly ticked over, desperately searching for a course forward.

"Yurghan is a sensible man," Al Dessi said forcefully over the other speakers. "If he has told us to leave then we should heed his words."

"And let that pompous ass L'Tarvius keep our ships?" Stieg spat.

"He has indicated that he is open to negotiation," said Lattemba. The Archmagos regarded his steepled fingers as he talked, small sparks arcing between his fingertips. "Perhaps this impasse can be resolved without any resort to violence."

"It'll need to be," said Jeena Beru. The grizzled old ship's Master had taken a fierce, possessive pride in the _Stallion of the Empire_ , learning its ways faithfully, perhaps to avoid the grief of losing the _Yolenna Symphony_. "If L'Tarvius is like any other Rogue Trader I've known, he'll board us and take the ship the moment he knows we've got no guns."

"Another reason not to go to Lysander IV," Al Dessi jabbed her finger down at the table. "We can't get close enough to allow the _Unshakeable Will_ to perform any deep auger scans." Jak sat up in his seat and turned to Lattemba.

"Is there any hope of getting our guns working again?"

"Sir, I have tried everything short of a full exorcism, and I lack the priests and the sacred knowledge to perform the feat safely. If I were to try, the likeliest result is a cataclysm that would destroy half the ship. These are gunnery spirits. Volatility is in their very nature."

"Even if we had all our cannons and lances, it wouldn't be enough," Stieg pointed out. "This is a well-armed trade galleon and L'Tarvius captains a grand bloody cruiser. Even with the _Siren's Wail_ at our side we'd be blown to pieces in a fair fight amongst the stars. Hell, the Will could tear the Siren apart before her guns were even in range."

"We cannot fight L'Tarvius in our current condition," Al Dessi said. "Which leaves negotiation or fleeing the system."

"Why do people keep calling it fleeing?" Jak complained. Al Dessi gave him a confused look, which he waved away. "Our returning to Calixis will be sped up a great deal if we can acquire a Navigator."

"Which argues for negotiating with the Rogue Trader," Beru said. "There is a great deal of unaccounted for treasure still in the holds of the ship. Perhaps an expedition could be sent to conduct a stocktake. Somewhere on board a ten-thousand-year-old treasure ship there must be something that could entice L'Tarvius to return our ships and provide us with a Navigator. Or," she continued smoothly at the outraged sounds made by some of the officers, "we could negotiate directly with the Queen. I seem to recall she had a favourable impression of you, sir."

"My Lord," piped up a voice from the opposite side of the table to Jak. Confessor Salazar had said nothing as yet, and he spoke with hesitation now, reluctant to interrupt the sailors as they talked. "I have something to report, my Lord. I had not wanted to disturb you with it, during the enormous undertaking of returning us to the God-Emperor's embrace, but given our current situation I feel it would be remiss if I did not update you on my people's progress."

"Progress?" Jak asked.

"With the prisoner, my Lord. I believe it is directly relevant to the current direction of conversation."

"The prisoner," Jak tried to keep his ignorance from showing, but it took a few moments for him to recall the Eldar prisoner they had taken during the failed crusade. Throne that had seemed like a lifetime ago! "Of course, Confessor. You interrogated the prisoner?"

"We did, Lord. Successfully I believe. At first, we relied on the traditional methods. Burning, manipulation of the joints, chemical purification. Most unsatisfactory. He feels pain, he gave us very clear indications of that, but he did not seem averse to pain as a human would be. At times he ever seemed to take satisfaction from our frustrations. Perturbing."

"I see," Jak glanced at Al Dessi, who seemed equally nonplussed. "So, a new approach was required?"

"Indeed, my Lord. We meditated most fruitfully on how best to separate the impure xenos from his information. And therein lied the answer." Salazar gave a satisfied smile.

"I'm not sure I follow, Confessor."

"Our meditation and prayer seemed to produce quite an adverse reaction in him. He shook and screamed like a little child, threatening us with all kinds of quite awful blasphemies. The more powerful my search for inner serenity the less he seemed to enjoy it. So, I removed the more gleeful of my questioners and replaced them with diligent, optimistic men. Josiah read to the prisoner from the Canticles of Grace, and young Benjik sang night and day songs of joy and praise to the Emperor. You recall Benjik? A most singular voice. Beautiful. It seems that this convinced our prisoner to seek redemption in truth."

"Well there you go," Jak said, still unsure where this was leading. "Well done, man. And what did the alien tell you?"

"A most discreditable story. It seems that it starts with a ship that the prisoner served on over 500 years ago. One whose named translated as the _Heartsbane_."

The wardroom listened in stunned silence as Salazar relayed the story of the _Heartsbane_. Al Dessi was the first to break the speak once he was done.

"This clinches it. Sir, we should depart this system immediately. Salazar's story changes nothing except to confirm that the system is cursed and depraved."

"It's an ugly tale but I don't see that it changes anything," Stieg muttered, but Jak wasn't so certain. He held a hand up to silence his second officer.

"No, this might change everything. Lysander is built on a lie."

Finally, his racing thoughts slammed together into something approaching a plan. With a slowly dawning smile, Jak leaned across the table.

"Ladies and gentleman, you are all missing the point. Returning to Calixis with the Stallion in its current state is tantamount to surrendering it. The Imperial Navy or the Priests of Mars or some other group will take it from us the moment that they realise we're defenceless. We need our other ships to stop that from happening."

"We should not engage in a battle with Mars over possession of this vessel, Sir," bristled Lattemba. "Preserving her and keeping her safe must be our priority. Her value to the Imperium is immeasurable, the Adeptus Mechanicus are the only ones truly able to care for her as she should be cared for."

"I'm not talking about a battle with Mars, Lattemba. I'm talking about a negotiating position. I'm talking about backing up words with macrocannons. We're not leaving this system without the _Siren's Wail._ "

The officers leaned forward intently. Every one of them had learned to recognise the tone of steel in Jak's voice when a decision had been made and the dice were ready to be rolled. "Ms Al Dessi, kindly inform L'Tarvius that we would be pleased to meet with him at the shipyards, to present gifts from our travels and discuss the return of the _Siren' Wail._ Then please present my compliments to Queen Hermia and inform her that Captain Velasquez requests an urgent and private conversation."

"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes. Set a course for the moons of Lysander III and let's find a way to get word to Benetor's people. It's high time the Archdeacon and I caught up."

 **=][=**

The Cathedral that the colonists were building would be big enough to viewed from planetside one day, sedately orbiting Lysander III's second moon in all its Gothic grandeur. Even in its unfinished state, it was an imposing sight. The colonists had survived in horrifically cramped conditions on the way out so that there would be room in the transport ships for all the stonework, glassware and statuary that the Archdeacon had requested.

Jak was led through to the primary basilica by a pinch faced attendant who announced the guest with a crack of his staff against the tiles and then disappeared again into the shadows. Jak could see the Archdeacon at the far end of the nave, bowed in prayer at the base of the altar.

Still only half built, the portside wall of the cathedral was nothing but skeletal stonework ribs and gently curving vaulting. The makeshift void-shield generators keeping the atmosphere in did not hide the stark beauty of the void beyond. However, on the starboard side, facing the sun, most of the work had been completed and vivid coloured light streamed across the stone tiles through stained-glass windows, washing Jak in a myriad of hues as he approached the Archdeacon.

Hearing the echo of Jak's footsteps, Benetor rose and turned slowly. "So," he said, his tones of tremulous sanctimony unchanged since they had last met. "The boy returns. The galaxy has chewed you up and spat you out, it seems. I hope the experience has made for a humbler and wiser captain than the child I last laid eyes on."

"Humble and wise, most definitely," Jak said with a good-humoured smile. The two men met in the middle of the nave, sizing each other up. "I see you've been busy, Benetor."

"Busy saving this system from itself. The Queen is a heretic, Velasquez. By rights she should have burned at the stake by now. It is my duty to take these blighted planets back into the light of the God-Emperor's sight, even if I must assume the burden of sovereign."

"So I've heard," Jak turned away and pretended to take a deep interest in the woodwork of the pews, avoiding Benetor's gaze as he spoke. "It seems that you've hit a snag there, though, if you don't mind me saying. You've thrown your lot in with L'Tarvius, hoping he'll back your move against the Queen. Supporting L'Tarvius means supporting the Crusade, even to the point of arming those old Jericho-class transports. But once the Crusade departs, and it'll have to depart eventually, there'll be nothing left to defend this cathedral when the Queen comes knocking." He turned back to Benetor, smiling with an expression of good natured sincerity that he knew would infuriate the Archdeacon. "And she will come knocking Archdeacon," he continued. "L'Tarvius won't dethrone her, he needs her too much. He plans to play the middle against the two of you until he's got everything he wants, and when he's gone it's just your colonists against a woman with three planet's worth of planetary defence forces."

"You forget, boy," Benetor growled, waggling his finger in Jak's face, "that I have the might of the Holy Church on my side. They may seem far from here, but I assure you, if I call upon my allies in the Greater Imperium they will bring down a wrath upon that traitorous bitch-Queen that you cannot possibly fathom. Her line will be extinguished, and her name will forever be held by her people as an example of the woe that befall those who defy the chosen representatives of the God-Emperor of Mankind. And the woe that will befall you if you are thinking of helping her."

"I wasn't thinking of helping the Queen," Jak replied brightly. "As a matter of fact, I was of a mind to help you."

Benetor stopped, but it took a moment for his finger to lower as he processed this new information. He scowled suspiciously at Jak. "You haven't gained that much humility and wisdom, boy. Why would you offer to support the church now? What do you have to gain?"

"Everything," Jak smiled, and gestured out towards the void. "Perhaps you've heard I'm now in possession of a heresy-era galleon. I'll be returning to Calixis with the greatest treasure that the sector has seen in over a century. There will be parades thrown in my honour on the streets of Scintilla. They'll give me a Warrant of Trade and a dynasty of my own, if I play my cards right. And that means I need to return a hero, with no loose ends, and no complications. The Lysander System is a loose end. And the Church could be a complication if it chose to be. I want to avoid that."

"Ah," Benetor nodded. He brushed past Jak, staring out towards the half-built walls and the darkness of the Void. "Now it makes sense. It is greed that motivates you. Venal, craven greed."

"Does it matter what my motives are if it gets you what you want? I can get you a meeting with the Queen, Benetor, and I can convince her to recognise you as the rightful ruler of the colony worlds as well as the spiritual ruler of the whole system. I can make her see that she has no other options, that L'Tarvius is a madman and that the next fleet to visit the Lysander System will be a battlefleet of the Holy Inquisition. She'll believe me, Benetor, and then you can report back to your friends in the Ecclesiarchy that I am as a reliable a friend as the Holy Church could ever have."

Benetor snorted. "You are a degenerate, barely a step above a heretic. And yet," he paused, and in that moment, Jak knew he had the Archdeacon. "You believe the Queen will listen to you? When she's ignored every attempt that I have made to get her to see reason?"

"That's because I have something you lack, Archdeacon. Charm." Jak grinned a toothy a smile. Benetor scowled but Jak quickly continued. "And she's already agreed to meet. With both of us. But it must be completely secret. Your people and hers can't know that there are negotiations happening unless they succeed."

"A secret meeting?"

"Just the two of us and our bodyguards. No more than ten each, and ten for her. Men that you can trust to keep their mouths closed. You'll tell no one where you're going, call it a period of religious seclusion, or some such. Then we go off into the night and rendezvous with the Queen at a private location. We meet, we talk, and if it doesn't go well then you walk away and continue on as you have. You lose nothing."

"And if it does go well?"

Jak smiled. "You rule the system. And I return to Calixis with an Archdeacon in my pocket."

 **=][=**

The Tower of Dreams lay in the shadow of a great crater's slopes on the dark side of an otherwise unremarkable moon. It rose up like a dark spear towards the perpetual shadow of the void, reflecting no light, hidden from probing augers and all but forgotten except by the royal family of Lysander, who had built it during their wars against King Demetrius so many years earlier. Jak's guncutter landed a few hundred metres away from the base of the tower. As agreed, he arrived with only the cutter's crew and his bodyguard.

His guards awaited him at the base of the cutter's ramps, alert and tense, guns held openly in their hands. Borjean led them, and there was a gleam in the old man's eye as he thumped a salute against his chest. Their friendship might never recover its old warmth but Borjean had not lost his sense of reckless adventure and humour.

"Nothing foolish," Jak warned. "No gunfights without my signal." Borjean only grinned in response.

They met the Archdeacon's party at the base of the tower, being watched warily by ten members of the Queen's Guard, kitted out with the best arms and armour Lysander could provide, wearing matching wary scowls. The Archdeacon's guards were hulking missionary fanatics, hooded and bare chested, the mechanical shunts visibly protruding from their shoulders ready to pump combat stimulants in their muscles at a moment's notice. Amidst them, Benetor was a dwarf, wrapped in velvet and ermine.

"Let's get this over with, Velasquez," he snapped. "I've waited long enough for my authority to be recognised in this system."

"My Lords." The Captain of the Queen's Guard was a young, hard-faced man in a peaked cap, carrying a gun half the size of his body. He gestured towards the single door set into the smooth plas-steel walls of the tower. "The Archdeacon and Lord-Captain only are permitted entry. The Queen awaits you at the top. The rest of us will remain here below until your meeting is concluded."

With careful solicitude, Jak gestured for the Archdeacon to walk ahead of him. They entered the tower together, stepping directly into a brightly lit elevator. In cramped, awkward silence, the men rode to the top of the Tower of Dreams. After what seemed an interminable time to Jak, a door finally opened -this time on the other side of the elevator- and they stepped out into a half-mooned atrium, ornately furnished with obsidian seating and stands that displayed precious heirlooms of the Lysandrian dynasty.

"You may enter," a woman's voice came through over the internal vox system. A broad wood-panelled door on the other side of the atrium led into a larger room, this one as humid as a greenhouse and festooned with the lush flora of Lysander IV, from broad flat-leaved ground covering plants, to brightly coloured tendrils of feathered spores that twitched languidly in the wet heat. Queen Hermia stood in the middle of the room, seemingly unperturbed by the temperature, her hands held primly in front of her, her expression hidden behind a long veil.

Jak smiled warmly at the sight of her and bowed as graciously as he knew how. Beside him he could feel Benetor stiffen, unsure how to greet his rival. The Queen too, gave no gesture in response to the two men, and said no words of greeting.

"Your majesty," Jak said, eager to cut past the tension that hung in the room as thick as the moisture in the air. "It is a great pleasure to see you again."

"It is a great surprise to see you Lord-Captain Velasquez," she replied, her tone formal and reserved. "We had feared you dead. I was pleased to hear that you had survived your encounter with the Dark Kin. And now, I hope you have returned to help put an end to this pointless feuding."

Benetor had agreed to allow Jak to speak first, knowing that the younger man would have a better chance of convincing the Queen. "I am here to see reason prevail your majesty. Not one of us wants to see ruin come to the system, but the threats to your reign are all too clear."

"What threat do you speak of?" The Queen's voice was high and sharp. This was a tone of command and rule, a woman used to being obeyed and impatient with insinuation. Jak knew he would have to tread carefully from here.

"Your majesty, the Archdeacon has invited me to speak as someone who considers you a friend, and who I hope you also see in friendship. I come as a Captain who has fought on behalf of your people, to convey bluntly the reality of the situation you find yourself in. L'Tarvius would have you believe that the greatest threat to this system and your Empire are the Eldar slavers, whom you call the Dark Kin. But the true threat to this system is Lord-Captain L'Tarvius himself."

In the silence that followed, Jak could sense Benetor about to open his mouth and harangue the young queen. He held one hand up, ever so slightly, hoping the Archdeacon had sense enough to hold his tongue at least a little longer.

"What do you mean by this claim, Captain Velasquez?" The Queen asked.

"L'Tarvius and his crusade, the endless arming of ships to be thrown away in his futile expeditions into the asteroid field. He is a threat, not only to the prosperity of this system, but to your very reign. He has inveigled himself into a position of authority with his power and promises, but his Crusade threatens everything your family has built in Lysander. The expansion of the system, the building of war fleets- to the Imperial authorities that I report to, these actions will appear to be a prelude to secession."

"You truly came here to tell me that the man who has dedicated his wealth and his warships to the safety of my people is a greater threat than the one I see before me?"

"Your majesty-" Jak began but Benetor could restrain himself no longer. "I was granted this diocese as an ordained leader of the Adeptus Ministorum," he barked. "I will have my station recognised!"

"Or you will have your lapdog here tell his Masters in Calixis that we are secessionists?" The Queen laughed, scornful. "This is how you intend to coerce me?"

Jak spread his hand out, trying to assume the appearance of honest broker. "I will simply report honestly on what I have seen and heard of this system and its government. That is a condition of my Letter of Marque. They will draw their own conclusions from my report. But your highness, I know the Imperial Bureaucracy and her Navy. I know how they think. The fleet that comes after mine will be a pacification fleet."

"So you have better take your little-" Jak held up a hand before Benetor could get started.

"You eminence, please. If the Queen and I could have a moment alone, I'm sure I can convince her of our common cause."

The Archdeacon left with only a few muttered complaints. He and Jak had planned this earlier, and although it had taken some convincing, Benetor knew that he was no diplomat. His temper would only get in the way of their task.

Jak had turned his head to make sure that Benetor had left the room, so he was caught unawares when the Queen came up on his blindside, walking right up to him and reaching a hand out to his face. Her veil was lifted, and she looked into Jak's face as she gently ran her fingers along the scar that peeked beneath his eyepatch.

"My poor Jak Velasquez," she said softly. "What did you get yourself into?"

He tilted his head down into her touch. "It was nothing," he said, placing his hand over hers. "I lost the eye, but it was worth the cost."

"What did your sacrifice win you? That beautiful ship I see you've brought with you?"

"A vision of my destiny," Jak replied. "Better than any ship."

"Destiny," the Queen repeated thoughtfully. "You said in your message you had news that would change everything. What does that mean. What did you find on your ancient ship?"

"It was nothing to do with the Stallion, your majesty, but another ship I was referring to," he took a deep breath and dropped his hand from hers. Oh well, he was all in now. "The _Heartsbane_."

She snatched her hand away from him like she had been scalded, turning away suddenly. But Jak had seen the flash of recognition in her face. He kept speaking as she walked away from him, moving as if she could somehow escape what was coming.

"When I saw you last, your majesty, you told me a story of angels from the sky. Mysterious strangers who helped House Lysander overthrow the Demetrius dynasty and expand the kingdom to new planets in the system. You said they came in a ship called the _Heartsease_. But it was never called that. It was the _Heartsbane_. An Eldar vessel."

"Where did you hear this ludicrous story?"

"From the Eldar themselves. They're notorious liars of course, but they had no reason to lie about this. They were your family's benefactors, all those years ago. The Dark Kin helped House Lysander take control of the system and grow it beyond its potential. Fattening you up. Did they tell your ancestors that you were going to become a prime slave-trading route? Was that part of the deal? Or did that come later?"

"No one would believe this nonsense, these lies," The Queen spat, her back still towards Jak.

"L'Tarvius would," he shot back. "Because it would suit him to. You can't be blind to the man's ambition, your majesty. He calls himself Admiral now, but that won't last. As long as the _Unshakeable Will_ is in this System he is the most powerful force in your Empire. And all he'd need is the hint of a rumour to depose you and crown himself King. All in the name of his great crusade of course. It wouldn't matter if it were a lie or not. But… it's not a lie, is it your majesty?"

Queen Hermia's shoulders slumped. When she turned back to Jak, there was a vulnerability there that he had not seen in her before.

"They were fools," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Fools to trust in the beneficence of the xenos. But we were so far from the rest of the Imperium. We had been forgotten. House Demetrius was a nest of vipers, sick with their own poison, happy to ignore the fact that the planet was dying. We needed materials to build shipyards, refineries, water purification, we needed technology to grow our crops and fuel our ships. The Dark Kin offered all of those things. And the price they asked in return…" she lapsed into anguished silence.

"They stole those materials from other Imperial worlds," Jak said quietly. "To help grow a colony world that they knew would be far from Imperial protection. Your Empire is a farm for the Dark Kin, your majesty. Your forebears sold out the future of your people to make themselves royalty." She did not deny it. She could not. The look of anguish on her face told Jak that everything the Eldar prisoner had said was true.

"Am I to be condemned for the crimes of my ancestors?" She asked finally, meeting his gaze, her eyes wet with unshed tears. He walked up to her and gently took her hands in his.

"I would like to think that we are each of us masters of our own destiny, your majesty. I don't intend to be defined by those who came before me. The offer I made to you is real. L'Tarvius will squander all your ships and resources on his doomed crusades. Benetor will drag you into a civil war if he does not get the recognition and power that he wants."

"And what is it you want, Captain Velasquez?" The Queen threaded her fingers through Jak's. "You have me. Alone. Compromised. If you want to extort me, you have everything that you need to do so. So what is it exactly that you want?"

Jak smiled slowly. This was it. He rolled the dice.

 **=][=**

Five minutes later, the Archdeacon Benetor Torsmund returned from the atrium to find the Queen standing very demurely besides a grinning Jak Velasquez.

"Your eminence," she said, addressing him by his formal title for the first time. "The Lord-Captain has spoken faithfully and true of your rightful role in this system. As such, I have a proposal. I will cede the rights to the system's two colony planets immediately, whilst retaining my place as Queen and Planetary Governor of Lysander IV. I will select Governors to administer the colony planets and all of us will recognise you as the rightful representative of the Ecclesiarchy and the highest spiritual authority within our realm."

"I will select the governors," the Archdeacon snapped quickly and Jak saw the Queen clasp her hands together tight, possibly to restrain the urge to strangle him.

"I will nominate candidates," she said with forced patience, "who will then be subject to your approval."

"Very well," Benetor finally conceded, rubbing his jaw as if agreement caused him some kind of pain. He probably wasn't used to it, Jak thought, marvelling at the fact that man could win everything he'd wanted in a single stroke and still sound disgruntled. "There are many details to iron out. I will want-"

"Your eminence," Jak interrupted. "We have the concession we came here for. Let us leave the haggling over details for the bureaucrats. Please, your majesty, we will leave you to your contemplation now, if you permit us."

"Yes," the Queen nodded. She walked to a writing desk set at the side of the room and touched a mounted vox-caster. "Captain Adriarc. We have reached an accord. Our guests are to leave peacefully."

"An accord, your majesty. Understood." The tinny response rang through the vox-caster. Jak was already guiding the Archdeacon towards the elevator. "Thank you, your majesty," he called out as they departed, but if she replied he did not hear it. The doors closed behind them, leaving the Queen alone.

Benetor did not speak until they were in the elevator, slowing descending. A wide, self-satisfied smile broke across his wrinkled face. "You have your uses boy, I'll grant you that," the old man crowed. "It took you far too long to come to your senses, but you finally realised what your duty was. How you made the little bint see sense I do not know and do not want to know but I have her now. She'll be kissing my ring by All-Saints Day you just wait and see." He gave a harsh laugh.

"I'll take your word for it," Jak said, slipping a hand beneath his coat, feeling suddenly cold. He thought of the agreement he had just made with the Queen, wondering for a moment if he'd done the right thing. Could he live with the choices he'd made? He would have to.

"But don't think this changes my opinion of you one whit, boy! I will tell the truth in my reports to my superiors, have no fear! You are devious, disrespectful, reckless and lacking all the qualities necessary in a Rogue Trader. You are an untrustworthy scoundrel, useful though you may be, and I will have all the Cardinals in the Calixis Sector know it!"

"Well," Jak breathed. "I suppose that makes this easier." He drew his pistol from its shoulder holster and shot the Archdeacon dead.

The lasfire blew a hole straight through the Archdeacon's unarmoured chest; he died instantly. As the elevator continued its descent, Jak looked silently into the corpse's face. Even in death, the Archdeacon's expression of sour distaste remained.

He could hear gunfire outside, but it was already growing sparse and had died off completely by the time the elevator doors opened. He stepped out on the surface of the moon. The stale air of the void-shielded tower complex carried the acrid stink of close range weapons fire. Corpses were strewn across the plaza and scorch marks marred the otherwise pristine stonework. The bodies were all Benetor's people; his own guards and those of the Queen appeared to have come through unscathed, numbers and the element of surprise being on their side. Borjean threw an officious salute at the sight of his captain.

"All dead, sir, as requested," his face clouded with concern for a moment. "'Accord' did mean kill them all, right sir?"

"It did," Jak said, with satisfaction. Borjean sagged with relief. "Oh good then, I was worried I'd forgotten the signal for a moment. I take it this means the little Queen's on board with the plan then."

Jak held off his reply. The Captain of the Guard walked over, sparing a glance at the body of the Archdeacon, still slumped in the elevator. He saluted Jak with enthusiasm.

"Captain Adriarc, of the Queen's Guard, my Lord. On behalf of her majesty, I'd like to convey my thanks for ridding her of that damn priest. She would also like me to state that she intends to hold up her end of the bargain. Whatever you intend to do at the shipyards, you will have the support of the Lysandrian Planetary Defence Force behind you."

"Then please convey my sincere gratitude to your Queen and if you will excuse me, I intend to make all haste towards Lysander IV."

The captain saluted again, and Jak strode back towards his cutter, guards trailing behind him.

"I'll send word to Ms Al Dessi to point the Stallion towards Lysander IV then, sir?" Borjean asked. Jak gave a grim smile.

"Indeed, Mr Narn. Tell her we're going to go get our bloody ships back."


	30. Part 4- Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

The ragged group of armsmen assembled before Jak looked very different to the group that had departed Scintilla under the Letter of Marque, so many months earlier. Their keen energy was gone, replaced by a wary tension. The naval discipline was gone too, straight backs and straight lines dissolved into weary slouches and distinctly nonchalant attention. But, Jak told himself, they were no less dangerous for this change. They were survivors, all of them, and their captain looked upon them with pride.

"I am not pretending that this will be an easy task." He addressed them from atop a container on the flight deck, needing no amplification for his words to carry to the small group of a few hundred men. "It will be desperate, bloody work. But we have comrades on board the _Siren's Wail_ and I know not one of you will stop until they are rescued!"

It wasn't the most stirring speech in the history of the galaxy, but it did the job. The armsmen cheered enthusiastically, raising their weapons above their heads. Jak held up his hand for quiet and continued.

"I will meet with L'Tarvius in person, under the pretence of negotiations, to distract his attention and ambush him. Ms Beru and Mr Stieg will be in command of the groups sent to incapacitate the guards around the Siren's docking bay and board her. We will have a contingent of the Queen's best soldiers helping us, and the assistance of the shipyard foremen to help unclamp the Siren and get her flying again. The Siren's captain and crew stand ready to aid us once you have freed her."

"And what about the Will, sir?" A voice called out from the crowd. "Aye!" Came another voice. "She'll outrun the Siren before we make any headway in escaping." The crew felt far abler to call out and question Jak than they had his father, but he didn't mind. He accepted by now that they were no Navy crew, and he need to convince them of his plan rather than rely on blind obedience. He relished the challenge and the loyalty that it brought.

"You're right!" He answered them loudly, cutting through the grousing. "The _Unshakeable Will_ is the most formidable ship in the system, one of the great ships of the sector. In the open void, she could destroy the _Siren's Wail_ five times over, and she'll chase us down if we let her." He grinned savagely and called out. "That's why we won't let her. Once we've got the Siren in hand, we're going to turn our guns on the Will before she's even left the docks. With good piloting and a willing boarding crew, we'll take the Siren and the _Unshakeable Will_ too!"

The crowd roared their approval of the audacity of this plan, not doubting for a minute that Jak could achieve the impossible and steal both the _Siren's Wail_ and the _Unshakeable Will_ from under the Rogue Trader's nose. Jak basked in their adulation for a few moments before dismissing them to prepare themselves for battle.

"You've got 'em keen, sir," Stieg said approvingly. Beside him, Al Dessi and Beru both nodded. "Now we just need this mad scheme to work."

"It'll work," Jak said firmly, but he was distracted. He could see Maternin Shyendi hovering at the edge of the dispersing crowd, clearly anxious to address her captain. He walked over to her.

"Adept Shyendi, I had a mind to put you in with the boarding team. Your job will be to sabotage the Will's gravity plating."

"Yes, sir. I will undertake this task for you." There was little expression on her face, but her fidgeting betrayed her.

"Is there something you wish to say, Shyendi?"

"It is a matter of opportunity and cost, sir. I am caught in the calculus of potential benefit versus the likelihood of punishment. Of course moral equations are poor maths because of the unknown variables, and I suspect, well naturally I don't suspect, but I rationalise that the risk of my taking the action which I am intending to take is not so great, but social-emotional predictive calculus is not one of my realms of study, and I realise that regardless of the likely outcome I am desiring to approach you anyway, which is a degree of irrationality that I am not used to-

"Shyendi," Jak cut across her. "You're babbling. What are you trying to say?"

The adept took a deep breath and opened up the bag. "I made you something, sir."

It was small, sleekly curved little device, with three wicked blades to stand upon. She held it out and he took it, speaking slowly as he turned it in his hands. "That looks like Kabalite technology," but he saw the little antennae and amplifiers installed into the device that were surely of Imperial make.

"You said that you would kill to know how the Eldar interfered with our electronic and noospheric auspex and vox systems. This device is how they do it. I… I have modified it to be useable against the _Unshakeable Will_. I call it a Screamer Box. It is… it is tech heresy, sir."

"My word," Jak breathed. He looked at the evil little device in wonderment. " _This_ is the edge we needed."

"I am aware that Mechanicus law and Naval regulations both call for my execution, sir, but I cannot abide possessing the knowledge of our enemies and not turning it against them. I took the risk that you would feel similarly. Am I correct, sir?" Shyendi asked quietly.

But Jak did not answer; he was too busy turning the little device over and over in his hands, smiling as he thought of the ways that he could use it against L'Tarvius.

 **=][=**

From the bow vista of the guncutter, the view of the Lysander shipyards was clear. It had grown less busy as they had made their approach; the work of outfitting the transport ships with new weapons appeared to have ceased, and the trade guilds of Lysander had significantly reduced general traffic to and from the planet. There was a sense of anticipation as the entire planet awaited the arrival of the _Stallion of the Empire_. But rather than dock at the shipyards, the Stallion had been left in orbit around one of Lysander's moon, and the final stage of the journey had been made by guncutter and cargo hauler.

Hundreds of Jak's armsmen were being transported in a dozen of the Queens own luggers, which had been diverted from their typical routes to pass by the dark side of the moon, out of sight of the Unshakeable Will's auger sweeps. Even with traffic to the planet down, the approach of these cargo ships would have gone unnoticed amongst those docking at the shipyards. L'Tarvius would have his attention fixed on Jak's guncutter.

 _The Unshakeable Will_ dwarfed every other vessel in the shipyards. Below it, and -due to the compact, twisted structure of the shipyards- pointing directly up towards it, was docked the _Siren's Wail_ , far smaller but no less magnificent. Even the smallest void ship was a masterpiece of Imperial Engineering and awe-inspiring demonstration of the Imperium's might. But, Jak had to admit to himself as he and Beru regarded the _Unshakeable Will_ , some demonstrations were more awe-inspiring than others.

"She's a beautiful ship," Jak said. Beru didn't meet his eyes, but she nodded. "Aye."

"Listen, when you board the _Siren's Wail_ , when you find Bream Yurghan, you need to depart immediately. Tell him to fire up and go. Once I've dealt with L'Tarvius I'll try to join you, but you can't wait for me. If the Siren can't get clear, then we're all done."

"Aye, sir," she said. There was a rigidity in her bearing. Beru had always been a deck officer, she'd never led a boarding party in all her years. She hadn't taken her eyes off the _Unshakeable Will_. "That ship there is 7.4 kilometres long, prow to thruster. Forty megatons strong. She can throw forty kilotons of firepower with both broadsides going."

"She's a beautiful ship," Jak agreed. "That's why we're taking her."

"The _Siren's Wail_ is a kilometre and a half. Six megatons. Four kilotons of firepower."

Jak clapped her on the shoulder. "We're taking the _Unshakeable Will_ , and there's no questions about it. I'll see you on board the Siren, Ms Beru."

He moved to the back of the cutter, where the armsmen were doing their final weapons checks. Al Dessi was assisting Jestross, as none of the other armsmen would assist him. Jestross looked up as Jak approached.

"You're sure you can do this, you giant rug?" Jak asked with a grin. "We'll keep them busy but a lot rides on you getting to the bridge." The xenos made a dismissive noise, tongue lolling.

"Killing humans ist easy," he replied. Al Dessi made a face.

"Smile, Ms Al Dessi," Jak laughed. "You're going into hell and coming back out again. It doesn't count if you don't smile."

"Don't tell me to smile," she snapped adding a belated, "sir." Jak raised an eyebrow. Al Dessi shrugged but maintained a defiant look. "I'll smile when we're done, sir. When this whole bloody business is done."

 **=][=**

They landed with minimal fanfare. Al Dessi took her team towards their rendezvous with Captain Adriarc of the Queens Guard, and Jak set off to Loading Bay 65-KK, for his showdown with the Rogue Trader L'Tarvius. He was flanked by Borjean and his personal guard, a half dozen priests, a score of junior officers and thirty servitors carrying heavy crates. The entourage was partially for show, but primarily for the purposes of overwhelming whatever force L'Tarvius had brought; the priests all carried flamers, and half of the crates lugged by the servitors were filled with heavy weapons to be brought out when the firing started.

The docking bays were connected by a labyrinthine arrangement of narrow walkways, fitting snuggly into the cramped, utilitarian layout of the shipyards. A number were hermetically sealed by armoured walls, but just as many lay open to the void, an infinitesimally thin barrier of transparent shielding keeping them atmospherically sealed. Any dockworker who made the mistake of slipping through that shield would quickly find himself floating over the edge off into the darkness, desperately hoping that his mates threw him a line or he floated into another walkway before the cold or the vacuum killed him.

Loading Bay 65-KK was another open platform, this one round and at least two hundred metres in diameter. In the distance, the hull of the _Unshakeable Will_ dominated the horizon, looming over the mess of packing containers and loading machinery scattered across the bay. Jak peeked a glance over the edge. Somewhere through that cobweb of walkways Jak could make out the _Siren's Wail,_ her armoured prow pointed up towards him.

L'Tarvius awaited them in the centre of the bay; to Jak's dismay he saw that he had surrounded himself with armsmen. Their faces were covered by dark visored helmets and their armour was adorned with the livery of House L'Tarvius. The smiling Rogue Trader stood casually amongst them, draped in his cloak and covered in exotic and xenos flavoured jewellery, but with no apparent armour of his own. Still, Jak tensed to see him. The Archdeacon had been easy to assassinate, a fool who believed his own bluster, but a Rogue Trader was a different proposition. You didn't become as powerful as L'Tarvius had by being stupid.

They met in the middle of the loading bay, and immediately the forced charade began, the two men embracing like long lost brothers.

"My dear boy!" L'Tarvius exclaimed, positively dripping with supercilious sincerity. "My good Lord L'Tarvius," Jak smiled in return. He gestured for two of the servitors to step forward, carrying a heavy case between them. "A gift, from our travels."

An armsmen bent down to unclasp the case as it was placed in front of L'Tarvius. The Rogue Trader couldn't keep the gleam of greed from his eyes as he glimpsed the labels of what was inside.

"Is that…"

"Terran Amasec. Ten thousand years old," Jak shrugged modestly. One bottle of the stuff was a priceless artefact, and he was handing over a crate like it was nothing. "Just a small gesture of appreciation. Without that disastrously planned Crusade, we never would have been set on the path to finding one of the greatest ships in the galaxy."

L'Tarvius grinned, but there was a fixed, predatory nature to his smile now. His eyes flicked from the crate to Jak's face. He tugged at his red beard thoughtfully. "And what else do you have for me?"

Jak hadn't expected that response. "So quick to get down to business, Lord L'Tarvius."

"A man who doesn't move quickly around you might find himself dead, my boy. Or is it only a coincidence that you were the last man to see Archdeacon Benetor before his mysterious sabbatical?"

Jak forced himself to stay calm and casual in his response. "Holy men wander off all the time," he shrugged. "They like to be alone with their prayers."

"I consider the Archdeacon a friend," L'Tarvius said. "He understood the importance of my work in this System. He offered me his wisdom and his support. I would be greatly saddened to hear of his demise."

"As would I," Jak shot back. "No man had greater regard for the Archdeacon than me. I don't know where you would get the notion that his disappearance is suspicious."

"No?" L'Tarvius cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps you are not aware then, that your arrival in the System has evoked suspicion and mistrust in all corners. Why just the other day I learned that officers on board the _Siren's Wail_ had been plotting to abscond with her and deprive the Lysandrian Battlefleet of her service." L'Tarvius began to walk as he spoke. Jak watched the Rogue Trader like a snake as he moved over to the nearest of the cargo containers and rapped his knuckles against it. A grind of whirring metal could be heard from inside, and a hollow clank as something heavy shifted its weight.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jak began but he was silenced as two armsmen of House L'Tarvius heaved open the cargo container. From within the darkness, moving with heavy, rolling steps emerged a bipedal weapons engine.

It was a combat walker armed with a heavy flamer, a sinister looking circular power saw and long, bladed pincers. It's size and basic shape was somewhat like a Sentinel, but where the Sentinel carried a pilot in an armour canopy, the pilot of this sinister monstrosity hanged from chains in an open chest cavity, held cruciform against the interior hull of the machine. His face was slack with pain and his eyes rolled back into his head. His body shuddered and spasmed in its cradle, marionette-like motions motion impulses forced into his brain and body from over a dozen humming wires that snaked into his limbs and skull. His eyes rolled back into his head, and it was impossible to tell what awareness the pilot possessed of the world around him.

Despite the pilot being wracked with pain and distorted by mutilation, Jak still recognised him instantly.

"Bream Yurghan," Jak whispered and for the first time in their meeting, his studied cool was lost to rage.

"What have you done?" He cried, advancing on L'Tarvius. He was pulled up short by two guards, who raised electrified halberds as they blocked the path between him and L'Tarvius. Jak heard his own guards hefting weapons behind him, charge packs humming as the safeties were switched off. He felt Borjean's hand on his shoulder, drawing him back towards his people, but his eyes never left the Rogue Trader's. "What did you do to him?" L'Tarvius smiled broadly.

"A technique gifted to us by the Archdeacon. The ecclesiarchy call it a Penitent Engine. A fitting end for traitors I believe. The condemned man pilots a war machine in service of his rightful lord, whether he wants to or not, until his enemies kill him or the strain of the engine does."

Two more penitent engines were emerging now from the container. Jak recognised the pilots as the first and second officers of the _Siren's Wail_ , and from the cries of outrage behind him so did his people. L'Tarvius continued to talk as if nothing were amiss.

"I thought a demonstration of these new weapons would be appropriate prior to our negotiations. I would hate for you to be under the misapprehension that your bargaining position is stronger than reality. Mr Yurghan will not be coming to your assistance anytime soon. Now," he smiled complacently, "I will ask again: what else do you have for me?"

Jak was still being held by Borjean, practically panting with rage. But at the Rogue Trader's question, a slow, savage smile crossed his face. "Well," he replied, pulling a remote trigger from his pocket, "along with those bottles of relabelled old grog, I did pack you a couple of hundred concussive grenades and a detonator."

L'Tarvius had less than a second to throw a panicked look in the direction of the crate and open his mouth to start bellowing orders. His words were lost when the crate exploded, with a shock wave that threw the closest men flying and drove half his men to their knees. Shrapnel sprayed across the wide arc, but unfortunately for Jak, the penitent engines took the brunt of it, and it plinked harmlessly off their hulls.

Jak's own people had smartly retreated when Jak had pulled out the trigger, and took positions behind the nearest cover before firing into the stagger House L'Tarvius armsmen. Borjean had thrown his arms around Jak to hurl his captain to the ground as the shockwave blasted past them. Jak felt his knees hit the ground with a crack, but he was already spinning back to face L'Tarvius, drawing his carbine and firing wildly at the Rogue Trader.

L'Tarvius was still on the ground, staggered, his men trying to raise him to his feet. Jak fired three shots directly at him and saw a blue glow flare about the man as the lasfire impacted harmlessly against some form of personal force field. Jak had never seen the like before, but he'd heard of them, the type of protection that only the richest men in the galaxy could afford. He saw the triumphant smile on the face of his foe as L'Tarvius got to his feet.

"Damn it!" Jak yelled. He fired again, dropping one of the bodyguards. But the armsmen were recovering from the explosion now, and lasfire was coming back Jak's way. Borjean grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back towards cover as the fire fight broke out across the loading bay. L'Tarvius was roaring orders to his own men as the penitent engines lurched forward. Above them the air filled with the roar and flare of grav-chutes as the Queens Guard jumped into fray, sending down a burst of suppressing fire as they landed gracefully amongst the fighting.

Back behind the cover of a cargo container, Jak turned to Farisr, who carried the battered field vox unit. "Give the order!" Then snatched the vox to give it himself. "All teams go! Go, go, go!"

 **=][=**

Exactly two hundred and thirty metres of narrow gangway and thirty-seven armsmen stood between Maternin Shyendi and the _Unshakeable Will,_ but the number of armsmen was growing, as they spilled out of the Grand Cruiser's airlock and took whatever cover they could find behind the concertinaed vac-seals regularly spaced out along the length of the gangway. From their positions they began sending an onslaught of fire into the boarding party. To Maternin's right, Al Dessi swore and flattered herself against the wall.

"I'd hoped we'd at least get on board before they started cutting us down! Sentinels!"

Two of the Yolenna's Sentinel contingent lumbered up the gangway. Shot-cannon shrapnel made a deafening hail against their hulls met by the Sentinel's own firepower, multi-lasers cutting a blinding swath of destruction through the defenders.

"Forward!" Al Dessi roared. Shyendi scuttled forward with the rest of the armsmen, using the bulky Sentinels as cover. She crouched low, clutching a las-pistol that she did not even bother firing. The Screamer Box was strapped to her back, protected from the fire by her own body.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Maternin was still able to make out individual sounds, her augmented cogitation processes differentiating and isolating the separate instruments of this orchestra of war. A new sound caught her attention, distant yet familiar; the slow whine of plasma engines coming online.

"They're firing the engines!" Maternin called out to Al Dessi. Unable to make out her words, Al Dessi looked at her quizzically. "The engine!" She yelled louder. "The _Unshakeable Will_ is taking off."

Al Dessi responded immediately. "Double time people!" She raised herself up to full height, reaching out with her pistol and punching off two shots that drove straight through the helmets of two defending armsmen. "Queens Guard! Let's go!"

Coming up from the rear, Captain Adriarc bravely led his his men forward into the fray. Their cries of "Queen Hermia!", and" Lysander!", were enough to create confusion amongst the defenders for a moment, as they wondered if allies had arrived. They were quickly disabused of that notion as the Queen's Guard began cutting them down. The rate of fire coming back down the gangway slowed, and the boarding party advanced quickly.

Feeling more confident now that she wasn't about to be shot, Maternin raised her eyes. Through the smoke and bodies, Maternin saw an individual crouch over a command console. With her augmented vision she could even make out the pattern of his fingers stabbing at the runes, and she knew what commands he was punching in. "The gangway!" She cried out. "They're closing off the seals and retracting the gangway."

"Not today," Al Dessi growled, coolly stopping in her tracks. "Shyendi, with me. Take a knee."

Caught up in the panic of the moment, Maternin felt for a moment as if she was the hysterical human and Al Dessi the cold, rational tech priest. Ravenna Al Dessi did not even seem phased by the obstacle to their plans. The senior officer dropped to a knee and swung the long-las strapped to her back out of its scabbard. "Keep your eyes on him," she ordered to Maternin, as she quickly assembled the long-las with practiced hands. "Give me your shoulder."

Maternin did as she was ordered, kneeling down as that Al Dessi could rest the barrel of the rifle on her shoulder. Retreating to the mechanical part of her mind, Maternin willed her breathing to slow almost to a standstill as she felt Al Dessi moving behind her.

"Eleven Forty-Nine. Standing at the console, blue stripes on his helmet," Al Dessi said, as calmly as if she were reading the weather forecast. "That our sailor?"

"Aye," Maternin said. There was a sharp cracking sound by her ear and the armsmen went down, falling in ragdoll heap. "Keep moving," Al Dessi said, standing up.

The defence was collapsing under the relentless pressure of the boarding party. As they neared the porthole entrance to the _Unshakeable Will_ , Jestross move to the fore, clutching four wicked blades, one in each hand, and cutting through the defenders at close quarters like a whirlwind.

Moving in squads, the boarding party leapt the gap between the gangway and the ship, entering the quarantine airlocks of the _Unshakeable Will,_ just as the ship began to move. The crew of the ship had already sealed the airlock off and Al Dessi ordered Adeptus Mechanicus boarding specialists forward, their cutting tools flashing and sparking. Maternin knelt down on the deck and unstrapped the Screamer Box. Setting it down in front of her, she began spooling it up. They could hear the distant calls of more sailors rallying to defend the ship. They had successfully boarded the _Unshakeable Will,_ but their work was just beginning.

 **=][=**

The battle on the loading bay had descended into chaos. Reinforcements spilling out of the _Unshakeable Will_ were halted by a barrage of fire from Jak's armsmen and the Queen's Guard, and in the midst of it all the three penitent engines created havoc with flamers and blades. Their pilots screamed in incoherent fury as they waded into the fray; it was impossible to tell if they knew that it was their old comrades they were cutting down. Shot-cannon shrapnel and las-fire rattled off their hull but no lucky shot had been able to hit the small forms of the pilots and put them out of their misery.

Jak crouched next to Borjean behind a cargo loader, waiting for the crack of las-fire against the reinforced metal to cease. Peering around the corner he saw L'Tarvius, surrounded by guards, retreating back towards the great wall of the _Unshakeable Will_ 's hull.

"He's getting away!" Jak yelled to Borjean. The old man shrugged and hefted his rifle to fire indiscriminately towards the enemy over the top of the loader. "We need reinforcements!" This time Jak addressed Farisr, manning vox-caster. Farisr shouted frantic requests into the machine and in less than two minutes, more of the Queen's Guard were landing, flying down from the levels above, guns already raised and firing as their grav-chutes slowed their landing.

Jak watched as Yurghan Bream's penitent engine balefully lifted its flamer skywards and began coating the reinforcements with billowing plumes of dirty black and orange flames. The burning bodies crashed heavily to the decking, their screams audible even amongst the cacophony of gunfire.

"The buggers are making their escape, sir!" Borjean pointed across the loading bay. The enormous mag clamps that held the _Unshakeable Will_ secure were pulling back from her hull, the whole vessel shifting as it was released to float free in the void. "Farisr!" Jak called out. "What's the status of the _Siren's Wail_?" Farisr began frantically voxing the boarding party.

Over to the right, Helmsworth had clambered onto the top of a cargo container. He fired down into the penitent engine housing Ms Dekstra, the former Ship's Master of the _Siren's Wail._ Her body flailed in its restraints as lasfire tore it apart, and the engine sunk to one knees, arms falling. Jak cheered at the sight but was silenced only a moment later when a scything beam of full auto las-fire caught Helmsworth, flinging him violently from the container as it tore through his body.

Warning klaxons began to blare across the loading bay, ordering everyone out of the fire zone for the Unshakeable Will's departure. "Sir!" Yelled Farisr, over the din. "Our people have retaken the _Siren's Wail_."

"Very good!" Cried back Jak. "Tell them to prep for departure immediately! No messing about, just get her flying. We'll join them shortly."

One of the penitent engines had charged at a cargo container, slamming into its side and rolling it over to crush the armsmen taking cover behind it. Sensing an opportunity, Jak broke cover and ran to attempt a shot at the pilot within. At the last second, a movement out of the corner of his eye made him spin. Yurghan's engine had swivelled towards him, raising its flamer. The engine's hull was pockmarked and smoking from lasfire, but somehow the man attached to it still survived, his face a rictus of rage and pain. Jak raised his weapon, but he knew he would be too slow to stop the flamer from spewing burning destruction upon him.

"Hands to yourself old chap!" Came the cry, as Borjean leapt into the fray. His chainsword whined as he brought it down across the engine's flame-wielding arm, then came the grinding scream as metal bit into metal, slowly carving into the armoured joint. Borjean's face was bright red and straining as he drove the chainsword against the engine's arms. Yurghan bellowed and thrashed in his restraints. The engine tottered on metal legs; its upper section swivelled and the spinning power saw lashed out towards Borjean. He screamed and fell backwards as Yurghan's circulating saw cut clean through his arm. Blood spurted wildly from the stump.

Jak roared, running towards the penitent engine, firing again and again directly in the body of the former captain of the _Siren's Wail_. He saw Yurghan's final moments of life, a sudden peace and calm crossing the old captain's face as he was released from the prison of the penitent engine. Jak had no time to feel for the man; he rushed to Borjean's side, frantically searching for the soldier's med-kit and taking out a tourniquet to tie around his bloody stump.

Borjean moaned incoherently as Jak went to work, still scanning for danger as he did. The battle was breaking up, with nothing to be gained by either side by continuing to fight. The Unshakeable Will was leaving the docks. As it past, Jak saw a manoeuvring thruster give a burst of white hot flame, incinerating a half dozen of the L'Tarvius armsmen who had been left on the loading bay. Even from hundreds of metres away Jak could feel the heat.

"Farisr, get the men out of here!" He yelled. Farisr hesitated, but did as he was ordered, pulling the armsmen back from the carnage of the loading bay. Jak looked about as he weighed up his options. The _Unshakeable Will_ was accelerating for battle and at any moment a stray thruster blast could kill them all. He didn't know how long it would take to drag Borjean to safety.

"Don't even think about dying, you old fraud," Jak panted, hefting Borjean up, his remaining arm hooked around Jak's neck. Borjean groaned but staggered alongside his captain. They were close to the edge of the loading bay; Jak could see the shimmering of the void shield and the enveloping darkness beyond.

"Leave me," Borjean choked, "Get yourself out of here, sir." Jak shut him up by clamping a rebreather over his mouth, grateful that he always brought a spare into battle. He did the same for himself and dragged Borjean as far as the edge of the loading bay.

The roar of void ships shaking their shackles was louder now, rattling the shipyards. Another thruster fired as it passed. Cargo containers crumpled under the intense flames, and Jak was forced to turn away from the sight of it, feeling the blast like a wall of heat. He forced himself to continue walking forward though, far enough that he could reach the bodies of one of the Queen's Guard. He hastily unstrapped the man's Grav-chute and slung it over his shoulders as he raced back to Borjean.

"Sir," the old guard said weakly, no doubt about to tell Jak to leave him again. "None of that," Jak chided, lifting him up, an arm tight around his waist. "Come on, we've got to go meet the _Siren's Wail_." As fires broke out across the loading bay, Jak and Borjean launched themselves over the edge, and into the darkness.


	31. Part 4- Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Jumping from the loading bay platform through the atmospheric shielding and into the Void without full protection was not something that Jak had ever attempted before, and almost immediately, he realised why it was generally discouraged. The first impression was one of soul-sapping, brain-scrambling, indescribable cold. But not a killing cold, not yet at least. And he could breathe, thanks to the mask fixed over his face. That was something.

Searching through the opaque lenses of the rebreather Jak could see the great red wall of the _Siren's Wail_ 's prow beneath his feet, as the ship ponderously emerged from its docking cradle. With fingers fast becoming numb, he scrabbled at the controls of the grav-chute, firing a short burst that sent him in the direction of the ship.

Jak hugged the insensible Borjean Narn to him as they plunged towards the _Siren's Wail_. He'd never tried hitching a ride on a passing void ship before, but in theory it seemed simple enough. Aim for the gaping opening of a torpedo tube, use the grav-cute to control his descent long enough to grasp onto one of the maintenance hatches set into the interior of the tubing, and then hope that someone was there to let them in when he knocked. Simple.

Every officer carried an emergency homing beacon on their clothing, in case they became lost in the vast network of the ship during battle. It has already saved Jak's life once on the _Stallion of the Empire_. He triggered it now and prayed silently to the God Emperor that someone on board the _Siren's Wail_ was thinking to listen in.

The iceberg of red adamantium was coming at them like a shark rising from the deep. Jak had little time to marvel at seeing the ship from an angle that few were privileged to witness; he had his hands full trying to stay alive. Freezing very slowly to death, Jak struggled to keep hold of Borjean whilst making minor adjustments of the grav-chute, using it as a small manoeuvring thruster so that they would be positioned to be swallowed up by the torpedo tube as the ship rose to meet them.

They wobbled back and forth dangerously but his aim was true, and they were enveloped by the vast cavern of the torpedo tube. Jak watched as the wall of red rose past and dark grey, burn-stained walls surrounded them on all sides. He frantically swung the grav-chute back down so that its thrusters aimed past his feet, firing the last of its fuel in one desperate burn, trying to match the speed of the Siren's rise just enough so that he could safely reach out and grasp at a rail. Even with the incredible care that a ship needed to take when leaving its dock, the speed of the _Siren's Wail_ was shocking when viewed from this vantage.

With the very last of the grav-chute's power, Jak gave himself and Borjean the smallest of thrusts towards the closest wall of the torpedo tube. Thousands of hands rails and hatches dotted the interior for the dangerous work of maintenance, and Jak reached out for one as he passed. He locked his arm around it, felt the jarring pain as his momentum crashed with the ship's, but he was able to keep a grip on the old man. Looking up, Jak saw the maintenance hatch only a few inches above his head, but he did not know if he had the strength to reach for it. He reached out, frozen fingers weakly stretching towards the hatch.

The hatch opened suddenly, light spilling out into the darkness of the torpedo tube. Jak saw voidsuited figures, tethered and mag-locked, reaching out towards him. He felt strong arms lock under his, grabbing at Borjean, hauling them both up. As the hatch closed behind them, Jak felt the sudden return of atmospheric pressure. He gasped as the rebreather was lifted from his face. It took him a moment to recognise the shouts that he could hear being passed back and forth, spreading across the _Siren's Wail_.

"Captain on deck! Captain on deck!"

 **=][=**

The doors blew backwards, forced off the hinges by the shaped charges and smashing into the armsmen defenders with a sickening sound. Las-fire pierced through the smoke, cutting down those who had not already been killed by the blast.

Emerging from the smoke and flames, Ravenna Al Dessi walked calmly but with purpose. Her rifle was up, she shot dead a groaning defender who had weakly raised his shot-cannon. More of the boarding crew emerged alongside her, alert and eager.

Seeing the passageway clear, Ravenna raised her hand. She turned to boarders, who had halted their advance.

"We're in now. Switch to ballistics and melee arms," Al Dessi said. The armsmen carrying lasguns holstered them and retrieved their unwieldly shot-cannons designed for maximum lethality with minimum damage to the delicate components of the ship. Al Dessi turned to Maternin. "Is your device working?"

"It is operating as expected. I cannot confirm the extent of the disruption, but in test conditions, this interference would have reduced the ship's internal vox and auspex system effectiveness by 82%."

Al Dessi exchanged a glance with Stieg, who shrugged. "We'll find out if its working soon enough," he said.

"Alright," Al Dessi raised her voice to address the boarding party. "We've got one chance at this. If the Siren can keep the _Unshakeable Will_ on edge, and we do our jobs right, this ship'll be ours within the hour. Stieg, take your people portside and do as much damage as you can along the way. Jestross, get to the bridge, as close as you can, and wait for the signal."

"Aye, aye!" The men saluted and turned to their respective teams, giving short, clear instructions. Al Dessi turned back Maternin and her squad. "Right, let's go."

 **=][=**

Borjean was whisked away to the medicae deck and Jak was escorted to the bridge by enthusiastically grinning Sirens. A buzz of excitement ran through the crew as they followed him, anticipating the _Siren's Wail_ return to battle at last.

There were bodies on the bridge, but fewer than Jak had expected. L'Tarvius hadn't kept many of his people on board and the Sirens had stayed loyal to the Velasquez name all these months. Arms-Sergeant Worral was directing servitors to remove the bodies; she snapped the Aquila against her chest when she saw Jak and bellowed "Captain on the bridge!"

"Where's Beru?" Jak asked, looking about.

"Sir, Master Beru didn't make it, sir. Took a bullet in boarding."

"Aye?" Jak didn't know what else to say, there was no time for mourning. He turned to the looming Captain's throne. The Siren kept hers to the rear of the bridge, on the cupola. A man that Jak didn't recognise was hooked in and sitting on the throne.

"Who are you?"

"Terrik, Sir. Master Terrik. Of the Vox, sir. All the more senior officers were taken by Lord L'Tarvius and his people three days ago. We don't know where they are."

"They're dead," Jak said. "Get up and take your post Master Terrik, we're going to get vengeance for them, right now."

As he took Terrik's place in the captain's throne, and the attendants gathered around to hook him in, Jak considered the sight that lay before him. He needed no holo of the Battle Sphere to understand the situation, he simply needed to look through the great vista panes. Dead ahead, the belly of the _Unshakeable Will_ loomed, wallowing and unprotected. A sudden burst of speed and the _Siren's Wail_ could ram her, driving deep into her guts. It wouldn't destroy the ship, but it would do immeasurable damage. _And then what?_

"Helm, if we keep our AV fixed will we touch her up?" The helmsman voxed back from his position two hundred metres ahead of Jak, as the very tip of the bridge. "We'll pass through her wash, sir, no contact. That's two minutes away."

"Shields?"

"Sir, our shields will hold against the thruster wash," answered a Presido officer who Jak didn't recognise.

"Lord-Captain?" A throne attendant held the slender cord of neuro-circuitry in her hand and looked at him questioningly. Jak pushed the hair back from his temple. "Do it."

The _Siren's Wail_ was not the deep, raging intelligence possessed by the _Stallion of the Empire_ , nor was it the keen, young hunter that the _Yolenna Symphony_ had been. It was ancient, but wily, a ship that had survived the millennia through celerity and guile. The machine spirits bristled with an eager, confidence, unaware that they were facing a ship far stronger than theirs. All they knew was that they were well tended, well running and born for these moments when the 'beat to quarters' drummed throughout the ship. Jak couldn't help but smile as their zeal buffeted his own thoughts.

"Helm, keep our current acceleration vector," the throne's vox-systems picked up his calm-spoken words and carried them to every officer on the bridge. "Until we've passed her at the stern. Then prepare to follow my instructions closely."

"Aye sir! Do you intend to rendezvous with the Stallion, sir?" The helm's voice was as eager as the ship felt. Jak shook his head.

"No, the Stallion can't save us. We're on our own, ladies and gentleman. And we need to wring every ounce of performance out of the old girl, so at your stations and be ready!"

The clamouring of "Aye, sir" chorused across the bridge, and Jak knew that anyone who looked could see he was beaming irrepressibly.

 **=][=**

The bridge of the _Unshakeable Will_ buzzed with activity, as hundreds of officers prepared their battle stations for action. The stations of the grand cruiser were arranged in rows, curving out from a central spine of gilded walkway that extended the length of the bridge and featured, halfway down, the glittering contoured edges of the command throne pool. It took the captain at least half an hour to fully immerse himself into the hemo-synaptic fluid of the sunken throne controls. L'Tarvius did not have the time, nor the inclination to douse himself. He was confident that this irritation could be dealt with without the need for precision guidance.

"Get me holo," he boomed, then cuffed a passing bridge slave. "And you get me a drink. Where the devils are they?"

His first officer, Lettus Persey, already had his eyes on the battle board, parsing data as only his savant-like mind could. "They're aft and below us, but rising quickly enough. It could be that they're planning to ram."

"We'll shred them to pieces if they try to ram and board," L'Tarvius snapped. "Is the boy that stupid?"

"He's desperate," growled his Master at Arms, Alspice. The squat, heavily augmented woman was a walking death machine, unable or unwilling to keep a permanent metallic growl of out her voice. "And they've already got boarders on us."

"How many?" L'Tarvius asked, and she shook her head in obvious frustration.

"Gremlins in the auspex and vox. We can't tell how many and we can't see where they are. My squads are reporting in from a dozen decks, but I can't make out half of what they're reporting."

"Fix it." His voice went cold as he took a seat at the secondary throne, and the slave blanched as he brought L'Tarvius his decanter. All aboard the bridge knew that when his voice went from booming to cold, the captain was truly in a rage.

"Their projected course has not changed," Persey continued calmly, as if their conversation had not been interrupted. "I doubt they'll try to ram us. It appears they may try to make an escape before we can come about and fix guns on her."

"The man's a fool!" This from another of his officers. They had gathered around the throne as the hololith displayed the cramps quarters of the shipyard and the alarmingly close vicinity of the two ships. "They'll never outrun us, not to the Mandeville Point. As soon as they get enough distance to target, boom! Fire torpedos."

"Perhaps another Lagrange point stunt?" Another officer chimed in.

"Shut up." L'Tarvius said, simply and the officers went quiet. "You're all wrong," He sipped thoughtfully at his amasec. "Keep augers trained on that moon. If the _Stallion of the Empire_ slips out of hiding I want to know immediately." He leaned in close, watching the movement of the _Siren's Wail_ as it slowly passed by the stern of his ship, shields briefly beset by the tsunami of radiation put out by the Will's thrusters. "What are you planning, boy?"

On the holo, the _Siren's Wail_ was moving at a right angle to the _Unbreakable Will_ , as the two ships left the cramped confines of the dockyard. There was less than a hundred kilometres separating the two ships, rather than the thousands that were typical for void combat - their close proximity on the holo made them look as though they formed the letter L- but the distance between them would grow from here. The grand cruiser did not turn swiftly, but her gunnery and ordnance were made for long range battle. It wouldn't matter much if the _Siren's Wail_ stole some distance on her. L'Tarvius was about to give the order to come about and pursue the frigate when something happened that made him pause.

The Siren's rear thrusters cut off completely. Along the starboard bow, manoeuvring thrusters flared briefly. L'Tarvius watched as the smaller ship fell -a relative term in the weightless expanse of the Void– towards the _Unshakeale Will_ like a breaching whale that had surged up from the depths and was now crashing back towards the ocean. But it was not an ocean that the _Siren's Wail_ fell towards. The ship arced like the hand of a clock, bringing itself down with a speed and accuracy that L'Tarvius could not help but be impressed by, until she was travelled in a parallel trajectory to the Will, rolling to present her portside cannons.

"Firing solutions!" He bellowed, finding his voice at last. His gunnery master made a strangled sound. "We're too close. We're too close to fire on her, without damaging our own shields too."

"Do it! Roll out the guns, damn you!"

"She's firing!"

The bridge shook as the cannons from the Siren's Wail all fired at once. L'Tarvius barked a laugh as he saw the damage reports scroll through on the screens. The shields had held easily. "They can't really think to attack us with those guns! The boy's suicidal. Blow him out of the sky!"

"Target is moving, sir. No chance to fire."

The _Siren's Wail_ was moving, conducting a manoeuvre that few ships her size were capable of, a stately barrel roll, that was bringing her up and over the top of the Unshakeable Will. She was too close to target with torpedos and past any useful angle to hit her with a broadside. "Full power forward!" L'Tarvius ordered. "We need to cut some space."

As his officers watched in murmured horror, the _Siren's Wail_ cut a perfect roll that brought her broadsides around to fire down on the _Unshakeble Will_ before her shields had fully recharged. L'Tarvius, though, couldn't quite keep the smile off his face at the audacity of Jak Velasquez. "Damn you, boy," he murmured.

"Sir," Alspice's urgent voice dragged his attention away from the holo. "I've lost contact with most of my deck chiefs. We have no idea how many boarders they have on us. They couldn't have that many armsmen, but if the Queen truly did betray us…"

L'Tarvius looked about at the hundred armsmen arrayed around the bridge, a bodyguard far greater than what was truly necessary, a sign of his power more than anything else. He nodded at Alspice. "Go, take them. Find out what's got onto my ship and kill them all."

 **=][=**

Jak felt a still calm come over him as he watched the Siren's cannons hammering away at the void shields of the _Unshakeable Will_. There was no room for fear or elation any more, only the cold calculations required to keep the ship moving so as not to be hit. It would take dozens of broadsides to do much damage to the Will, whereas she could cripple the smaller frigate with only two good volleys. Jak did not intend to give L'Tarvius the opportunity.

In such close quarters fighting, the size of the _Siren's Wail_ suddenly became an asset. She was small, but as agile as a frigate could be, and whilst the acrobatic manoeuvres sent the machine spirits squalling in protest and the grav-plates working overtime, the crew knew exactly how to make the most of her movements. She rolled over and under the _Unshakeable Will_ like a playful porpoise, rotating to keep one or the other broadside pointed towards the grand cruiser, and angling so close that L'Tarvius could never get a fix with more than a few of his macro-cannons at a time.

"Steady now, lads," Jak called out as the Siren's portside guns swivelled towards the Unshakeable Will's keel. "Half a side, now Mr Loke, give the order. Every second cannon to fire on my command."

On the guns decks the crews would be working frantic, overseers lashing, and every man roasting from the overheating cannons, but they could not let up the pace. Bringing down the _Unshakeable Will's_ shields was critical. "Fire." Every crewmember on the bridge kept half an eye on the enemy presido reports as the great cannons thundered and shells hammered against the Will's voidshields. They were so close that the call came back even as the echoes of the cannons were still shuddering along the decking. "Enemy shields are depleted, sir."

"Second volley, fire," Jak said. This time the shells struck the ship herself, battering her upper works. Explosions blossomed across the command decks and great hunks of metal shrapnel were thrown free from the ships.

"All direct hits on target, sir."

Jak smiled. "Very good. No letting up now! Let's soften her up for the boarders."

 **=][=**

They made it to the secondary cogitation core without too much difficulty, and Al Dessi set up a perimeter while Maternin and the explorators began infiltering the ship's core systems. But defenders soon found them and the vault erupted with the chaos of gunfire. Maternin filtered it all out so that she could focus on the difficult task ahead of her.

Gaining access to the system was the hardest part. The logis systems of the ship were well protected and cajoling sentinel machine spirits to allow them access was delicate work. One of the explorators was thrown across the room, his mechanics sizzling as self-defence protocols arced through the systems and melted his interface attachments.

"What's happening back there?" Al Dessi yelled from their defensive position. A hail of gunfire made her duck, and she swore as she glimpsed more armsmen filtering in through a side entrance. "Fall back!" Al Dessi yelled to her people. "Shyendi! How long?"

Maternin briefly switched focus, turning to observe the armsmen drawing in close as the _Unshakeable Will_ 's defenders pushed them back. "We're still between three and seventeen minutes away from a successful-"

"Too long!" Al Dessi interrupted. "Get it done, now!"

Maternin briefly considered enlightening Al Dessi on the nature of computational processing and the ineffectiveness of motivational exhortation, but decided that this would be inefficient and so returned to her work. As the sentry spirits relented against the entreaties of her infiltration code, she saw the Noospheric representations of ship-systems unfurl in golden streams of data, emerging in fractal patterns from the central core.

"We have access," she announced. "I will begin the process of identifying core gravitational matrices and inducing relative flux."

"Mag-boots!" Al Dessi ordered, not taking her eyes off the far end of the vault where the _Unshakeable Will_ 's defenders were keeping up their steady fire. An armsmen was hit by a direct blast. His body slammed back into the console that Maternin was working on. She recognised Sergeant Shadlo although his face was a ruin of blood and broken bone. She knew Sergeant Shadlo. He had been with them on the Stallion when they had faced the Heldrake. He was a good man.

Part of Maternin's mind was screaming in horror, a scared little girl still trapped on her parents' ship with the slavers and torturers knocking on the door.

Armsman Toraach rushed to Shadlo's body, dragging him from the console to the deck and leaning over to administer painkillers.

"Don't mind us, ma'am!" Toraach said. "Keep to your work!"

Maternin Shyendi was no scared little girl. She was an adept of the Adeptus Mechanicus. She purged the memories from her immediate focus, re-routing critical cognitive routines through more reliable, mechanical pathways. He hands back a blur across the keys as she dove deep into the _Unshakeable Will_ 's systems and fought to wrest control of them.

 **=][=**

Seven armsmen guarded the direct passage to the _Unshakeable Will_ 's bridge, standing watchfully at a narrow chokepoint, guns trained down the long passageway from where the boarders were most likely to make their approach. This was why they weren't prepared when Jestross dropped from the ventilation shaft above them, falling lightly to his feet behind them before rising to his full, monstrous height, fours arms outstretched with a blade in each hand.

At the sound of his landing, one of the armsmen turned, eyes wide in shock and fear. He raised his gun to fire, roaring to his compatriots. Jestross moved forward, a brown-furred blur, arms spinning as his blades sliced and stabbed. The armsmen's cry died on his lips as Jestross sunk a knife deep between his ribs. The xenos did not stop moving as he moved between the group, severing limbs and slicing throats. Shotcannons fired around him, but he was too close, too fast, not a single blast hit home.

Jestross clacked in satisfaction as he observed the carnage around him. He looked up at the great doors barring him from the bridge. They were only fifty metres away, but there was no cutting through the thick adamantium. He would have to hope that the gunfire and bloodshed would bring them out.

"Thirty seconds until gravity shift." Maternin's voice came in over the vox. Jestross shifted his stance, facing towards the door. More armsmen were spilling out of side passageways now, advancing cautiously, pressed close to the bulkheads for cover. The doors slid open, bridge officers carrying las-pistols emerged. Jestross tensed as the first shots slide wide, noisily cutting through the bulkheads

"Enacting gravitational flux." Jestross broke into a run and launched himself forward. As he rose into the air he felt everything change around him, his hair standing on end as the grav-plating on the ship momentarily faltered. He was suddenly weightless, floating, but still moving in the same direction, launched towards the bridge. In front of him armsmen flailed in surprise as they rose into the air, unprepared for the sudden loss of gravity.

"Shifting portside." Maternin's voice came through on the vox a moment before gravity shifted again. Jestross braced himself as grav-plating in the bulkheads suddenly drew everything portside. He landed gracefully, as the armsmen and officers crashed heavily against the bulkheads.

Looking up, Jestross saw the doorway -on its side now- open and unguarded. His mouth opened and his tongue lolled, a snuffling laugh escaping him. The passageway stunk of fear and confusion now. He broke into a run as the armsmen and officers tried to push themselves to their feet.

"Shifting starboard." With a lurch, gravity started shifting again. Jestross did not break stride for a moment, running up the decking as down became up. His arms shot out either side as he raced past the first two armsmen, blades flashing. A man screamed as his gun hand was sliced clean off. Another died just as he was able to get to his knees.

"Close the damn door!" An officer yelled, but it was too late.

"Shifting forward." Jestross roared with savage joy as he was thrown headfirst towards the bridge.

 **=][=**

L'Tarvius ground his teeth as he watched the _Siren's Wail_ fire broadside after broadside at his grand cruiser. It has been years since he had fought against a captain who had been able to force him into such a compromised position. He realised now that he had grown complacent in his old age, allowing too much of his captaining to be done by subordinates.

"I want firing solutions!" He roared. "I don't care if we have to stand on the auspex arrays and fling rocks at them! Get us in a position to hurt that ship!"

His officers reacted calmly, continuing at their roles with practiced discipline, which only served to make L'Tarvius more furious.

"Alspice! Have you got those damn boarders off my ship?"

Nothing but static came back on the vox. L'Tarvius growled in frustration. But he soon had worse issues to deal with.

The feeling of grav-plates failing is a familiar one to any void-traveller. L'Tarvius recognised it and responded instantly. He gripped the armrests of his throne frantically as his body started to lift from his seat. Around him, some of his officers had not been so quick and were finding themselves suddenly floating free, whilst others were gripping onto their stations and frantically activating mag-locks on their boots.

"What the bloody Throne is happening?" L'Tarvius yelled, but he received no answer. Chaos was breaking out across the bridge as gravity shifted, first one way and then the other. Crew were thrown across the bridge, bodies snapping and breaking as they crashed against consoles and railings. "This is sabotage! How did they-"

"Breach on the bridge!" A voice yelled. L'Tarvius twisted in his seat just in time to see the blur of fur barrelling towards him. The beast was hideous, with a gaping maw and four gleaming blades held in its clawed hands. He did not ever have time to call out, the beast was upon him in the blink of an eye, its claws digging into his arms, it's jagged blade at his throat. It glared at him with bulging eyes, its trisected mouth twisting as it spoke in an archaic form of gothic.

"Lord L'Tarvius. My captain would have words with thee."

A flashing vox request came through on the holo. Moving very, very slowly, L'Tarvius inched his finger across to accept the call. Some of his officers were hesitantly raising their guns, but they stopped at the furious glance from their captain.

The face of Jak Velasquez, leaning forward in his throne, flashed up large on the viewscreem in front of him.

"L'Tarvius!" The young captain was beaming. "We're blowing you apart and there's a knife to your throat. Might I request your immediate surrender old chap?"

* * *

 _Author's Note: This is the penultimate chapter of the story, we're almost at the end! I'm sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up, lots of illnesses in the family took away from writing time. It shouldn't be an issue for the final chapter._


	32. Part 4- Chapter 27 and Epilogue

**Chapter 27**

In the dockyards of Lysander, the four void ships of Fleet Velasquez waited, gleaming with fresh paint and repairs. Haulers and loaders flew back and forth between the ships and the yards, loading supplies for the voyage back to the heart of the Calixis system and retrieving their payment from the ships' holds. The proud _Siren's Wail_ , sturdy _Vonaznaniya-17.8,_ mighty _Unshakeable Will_ , and glorious _Stallion of the Empire_ had been restored to travel readiness by the hardworking shipwrights of Lysander, in return for generous bounty secured from the Will's stores.

The _Stallion of the Empire_ was tethered to the _Unshakeable Will_. Jak lacked the crew to fly her, nor the armsmen to scour her decks of the Ryleth threat. His loyalists from the _Yolenna Symphony_ and the _Siren's Wail_ had been spread across all the ships, mixed in with those who had up until a few weeks ago sworn fealty to L'Tarvius. He did not expect too great a difficulty with his former enemy. Al Dessi assured him that the crew of the _Unshakeable Will_ were keen to return to civilization, having long grown tired of the Rogue Trader's private crusade.

He stood on the flight deck of the Stallion, taking one final look around as the last of the crew prepared to depart. Such a strange ship, bristling with ancient power and dangerous mysteries. He gazed into the dark passageway as the heavy doors to the flight deck slowly closed. Somewhere in there the Ryleth still prayed to their malign gods. Somewhere in there his sister's body lay. _And what other dark secrets lurk in these passageways?_

But that was a question for another time. For now, these doors would be closed, the purity seals reconsecrated, and the darkness left alone. Jak turned away from his prize and walked across the landing deck, out into the recycled air of the shipyards.

To his surprise, Queen Hermia was waiting for him at the loading bay. She had come with no fanfare, and only minimal escort -Captain Adriarc thumped the Aquila against his chest when Jak walked over. The Queen's face was pale and serene behind its veil.

"Your majesty," he bowed.

"Lord-captain."

Jak ran his hand through his hair uncomfortably, unsure of what to say in this moment. "My thanks to your shipwrights. Your people have done a wonderful job prepping the ships."

"I wish to know when you will be departing." The Queen said, her voice severe and formal. Jak straightened up and changed to a more businesslike tone.

"We'll be ready to depart by eight bells, your majesty."

"Eight bells?"

"Soon. We'll be out of your hair soon."

There was a pause, and Jak realised that the Queen was no longer looking at him. She was walking forward to gain a better view of the Stallion. He turned to regard it with her. The visible section of her hull featured a three-story tall bas-relief image of some victorious crusade lost to history. Ancient Space Marines floated like angels over a grateful people and a vanquished foe.

"And who will protect the Lysander system now that her only warships are gone?" The Queen asked quietly. Jak looked over his shoulder, but her escort had kept a respectful distance away, giving them privacy.

"You lost more people in the Crusade than you ever did to slavers, your majesty," he said. It wasn't much of an answer, he knew. They were abandoning the Lysander system, and leaving the Kabalite Eldar free to continue their dark works. The Queen's shoulders lifted, and her breath seemed to pause, as if what she was about to say was taking a great deal from her.

"You could stay," she said softly. Jak sighed.

"You didn't come here to tell me that."

"No." Queen Hermia shook her head. "I came to ask what account you intend to give of us… of me. What will you say to your masters on Scintilla?"

"I will tell them that a brave outpost of the Imperium is standing firm against the forces of evil, and that they should send reinforcements at once to assist them." Jak turned to the Queen with a smile. She looked up at him, her face inscrutable behind her veil.

"Do you truly believe that they will?"

Jak glanced back at the _Stallion of the Empire_ , this magnificent vessel. He could imagine perfectly, for a moment, all the hope held by those who had voyaged on her, their bravery and optimism for the future. He could imagine the torment of such a proud ship, left stranded over the millennia in the madness of the Warp. He turned back to the young Queen.

"I believe that the galaxy is a cruel place, your majesty. And that you should trust in the mercy of the God-Emperor."

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On board the _Vonaznaniya-17.8,_ Maternin looked about the refurbished bridge with satisfaction. With so few tech priests to go around, some modifications had been needed so that a human crew could assist in flying the ship, but Maternin had insisted they be temporary and of no disruption to the sensitive machine spirits of her vessel.

 _Her vessel_. Captain Velasquez had given her the acting command, and both the human and mechanical sides of her brain were practically glowing with pride at the fact. When the fleet departed, she intended to show those warships what an expeditionary vessel of the Adeptus Mechanicus was capable of.

"Stow those cables! Bring the menials up, I want everything on this bridge to shine in reverence to the Machine God! Sergeant Shadlo, have your squad ensure the menials are careful around the electronics."

"Yes ma'am!" Shadlo saluted vigorously. The armsman had made a full recovery from his injuries on board the _Unshakeable Will_ , although a full third of his face was glistening chrome now. He had refused to shave his beard, so it grew in ragged tufts around the metal, somewhat ruining the affect, but his good spirits seemed unchanged. "Come on you mugs, you heard the captain!"

A cadre of lexmechanics, fresh from the _Unshakeable Will_ , had arrived and were standing on the bridge, ignoring the Noospheric instructions that were flashing about them. Maternin approached them, addressing them in Lingua Techna.

"You were expected thirteen and a half minutes ago. Such imprecision will not do on board my ship."

The lead priest visibly bristled at the scolding. He advanced on Maternin. "Is this some human attempt at humour? We are expected to obey the orders of a Genitari? An innovator? A heretek?"

"Click click, gentleman. That sounds like dissent in binary." The priest froze at the cocking of a pistol, and the feel of metal pressing through the hood of his robes. "Did I hear wrong ma'am?" Borjean Narn stood behind the tech priest, gun clutched in his gleaming new bionic arm. "Just say the word, and I blow his gears all over the deck."

"Thank you, Master at Arms, that won't be necessary. Our newest arrivals were just inquiring as to where they would be able to find their quarters. If they follow the instructions available to them in the Noosphere, we'll have no more need for conversations regarding insubordination or gears blown all over the deck."

The priests left hurriedly, trailing data streams of obedience and supplication.

"You think they'll be trouble ma'am?" Borjean asked, eying their retreat.

"Perhaps. That's why the Lord-Captain offered me your services, after all. But I think we will find the dissent wears off quickly. We are a hierarchical people at heart," she sighed and turned to her acting-Master at Arms. "How is your new limb serving?"

"Fairly well, thank you for asking, ma'am." Borjean flexed the metal arm, which he kept uncovered and gleaming in a show of pride that Maternin greatly respected. "I could almost be one of your bunch now, don't you say? Hand in my human badge and pick up a red robe."

Maternin laughed in delight. "The Genitari would gladly take you in, Mr Narn!" She tapped his arm. "You know, some in the Cult Mechanicus believe that the Omnissiah will be revealed when we escape the trappings of human flesh. But humanity was the shape we were given. We were never intended to become profane automatons, to lose our essential nature in pursuit of mechanical perfection."

"Is that so, ma'am?"

She grasped his arm, looking up at him, longing for her friend to understand. "We are the place where the human meets the machine. Where flesh meets metal. The place where the Warp meets the Void. We are the ones destined to answer the age-old question."

Borjean looked genuinely curious now, as he considered the little hand of the tech priest wrapped around his metal limb. "What question is that?" He asked.

"How far can we push into the unknown before we lose ourselves?"

She turned away from him and looked out through the great vista panes of the bridge. Even the Adeptus Mechanicus understood the romance of being able to look out into the very void itself. For the first time since the death of her parents, she allowed herself to feel that most irrational, that most human of emotions. _Hope_.

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Ravenna Al Dessi was waiting for Jak in the captain's stateroom aboard the _Unshakeable Will_. He had changed little about the rooms since claiming them as his own, except to replace the bed and bring in his father's desk which they'd salvaged from the _Yolenna Symphony_. Ravenna had both hands pressed against the desk as she looked out through the vista panes into the void.

"Is the fleet ready for departure?" Jak asked, coming up alongside her.

Ravenna straightened and spun around. "Aye, sir. Ready to depart at your order." Jak shook his head, smiling in wonderment, permitting himself a moment of disbelief at the fact that the risks they had taken seemed to have all paid off. He leant back against the desk, shoulder to shoulder with his first officer.

"We did it Al Dessi. We bloody well did it. Returned from the Halo Stars without a Navigator, found a priceless treasure and captured a grand cruiser flying only a frigate. A grand cruiser! They'll never forget this back in Calixis!"

"Aye, sir, because we won't let them. Your father would be proud." Ravenna hesitated as she said the last part, and an awkward silence grew between them.

"You think he would be?" Jak asked quietly. Ravenna did not answer straight away.

"I remember when you were first born," she said at last. "Did you know I was there that voyage? I was only a junior officer back then, but your father had already seen my potential and had taken it upon himself to prepare me for leadership. We were chasing the frigate _Bellaphron_ across the Stygian whirlpool. You mother was nine months pregnant." She chuckled at the memory. "No normal man would bring his pregnant wife with him on such a mission, but your father always wanted his family close and Yolenna Velasquez was game for anything. The two of you, the twins, you were due to be born any moment, but the _Bellaphron_ had just escaped into the Warp. In a matter of hours any trace of her would be gone."

"I've heard this story before Al Dessi," Jak said but she cut across him.

"You haven't heard the ending. We were caught in the storm, tossed through the Immaterium, hundreds lost to madness or the shadows of the Warp. When we finally righted the ship, dropped back through to the calm of the void, the _Bellaphron_ long forgotten and all of us simply happy to be alive, I heard your father speaking to the midwife that he had brought with him."

"She told him that my sister and I had been born during the storm." Jak said.

"Born during a warp storm." Ravenna shook her head. "Such a black star to be born under. Your father said that the two of you and your mother were to be kept in seclusion for another week, whilst the ship was undergoing repairs. No one but him and the midwife were to know that you had been born before the ship had left the Warp."

"What is your point Ravenna?"

"Your father confessed to me his fear that you would both be cursed. That you and Retta would bring chaos and destruction upon the whole family."

Jak grinned and shrugged. "Well there's still time for him to be proven right."

"No," she shook her head, frustrated. "It was always in my mind, you see? That moment when Garian accused you of his murder, I wondered what your father would have wanted me to do. You frightened him. But then I realised, _it didn't matter_. You were his rightful heir, with Mustek incapacitated. As an added bonus you turned out not to be his murderer either. And you got the ship through. No matter what hit us, you got the ship through."

Jak smiled wryly. "If I had a glass, we could raise a toast to a happy ending." But Ravenna wasn't smiling. She looked troubled.

"L'Tarvius is a threat still. His people are spread across the ships, to reduce their opportunities for plotting, but still they outnumber our own. If he can inspire them to rise up-" This time it was Jak's turn to cut her off.

"L'Tarvius has given me his word not to attempt an escape."

"And what good is his word? He betrayed you, sir, took your ship and killed her captain, threatened you and held this whole system hostage to his games. Yet, this system will remember L'Tarvius as the Hero of Lysander, and you will be the man who stole him away and abandoned them to their fate."

Jak shrugged as he stood "We're not the good guys Al Dessi. We're Rogue Traders. Tell Jestross I want fresh meat with dinner this evening, I'll be dining with Lord L'Tarvius. Now, I think I'm going to go to the bridge and tell my fleet to set sail."

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Jestross stalked the galleys of the _Unshakeable Will_ , searching for a steak. He recognised some of the galley yeomen, but many were strangers to him, and to his great satisfaction they blanched at the sight of a xenos walking the ship. They had been told about this blasphemy but knowing something and seeing it rummaging through the fridge were two very different things.

"Thou," he reached out with one heavy clawed hand and grabbed a passing sailor by the shoulder. "I want meat." The sailor, a young man, yelped and babbled incomprehensibly at him. "Meat for thy captain's dinner table." Eyes rolling in fear, the sailor pointed towards where the steaks were being prepared. Jestross let him drop and set off again.

Behind him, Jestross heard someone spit. He stopped in his tracks but did not turn around. There were a half dozen galley workers behind him, he could picture in his mind where every one of them was standing. Casually, the great xenos flexed his claws. To his satisfaction, he heard a pot clatter to the deck and the sound of footsteps hurriedly running away.

Jestross took a long, deep breath, drawing the stale air of the ship through his nostrils. The scent that suffused the ship was one he knew well. He could smell it on every deck ever since the captain's victory. He drew it in deep. _HateFearLove._ The smell of a pride.

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They ate at the long table, seated either end. Jak lounged in a gilded throne, eating leisurely as he regarded his prisoner, who hunched over his plate and picked slowly at his food. Titanius L'Tarvius had behaved like a gentleman since his capture, but something about his behaviour struck Jak as unnatural. He had burned with a Crusader's passion and the arrogance born to all Rogue Traders. These qualities should not have left him so easily. Jak did not trust this cowed, humble figure before him.

"How is your food?" He asked. L'Tarvius looked up from his plate, a brittle smile upon his lips.

"Delightful." He returned to his meal. Jak continued to probe.

"The ship is performing splendidly. I thought there might be some issues, what with two thirds of her crew spread throughout my fleet or wallowing in the brig, but she responds like a charm with the right man on the throne."

L'Tarvius paused, fork to his mouth, but did not look up. When he spoke, there was an exaggerated calm in his tone, a man forcing himself to discuss the weather rather than his murderous rage. "I take it you will be bringing me back to Scintilla. My family will thank you. They'll have thought me dead and the ship lost. One of those things would sadden them more than the other I fear."

Jak chuckled. "Well, they may have to stay in mourning, my friend. I'll ransom you back for the family reunion, but the ship is staying with me. The law in Calixis allows for that, your refusal to return the _Siren's Wail_ counts as piracy."

Now L'Tarvius looked up properly, pushing himself back and straightening to consider his rival across the table. "You think the law is a concern here? My dear boy, you may have won a lucky skirmish, but you've entered into a war with House L'Tarvius now. Ransom me back for a princely sum- I won't complain. But as soon as I'm back with my family, with my armies, I will come for you. And you had best be ready for that. Because the last man who crossed me like you have, well… I destroyed his ships, I destroyed his family, I put out his eyes and I left him as a warning for every man thinking to make his mistakes. _You don't cross a L'Tarvius, boy_. I'm very sorry that you'll have to learn that the hard way."

Jak continue to carve his steak, nodding thoughtfully at his rival's words. "Not very polite dinner table conversation, L'Tarvius. My father always punished us for impoliteness at the dinner table. Actually, he loved it, but mother didn't and so he would always threaten to punish you." He waved his fork as he mustered a blustery imitation of the late Admiral Velasquez. "'If you can't listen, I shall shove you out an airlock!'" He chuckled. "Always saying he'd vent us out of airlocks, that was his favourite threat. Never did it of course. Always just threats."

He looked across the table. L'Tarvius was staring at him, silently, eyes filled with hate, flickering in the candlelight. Here was a true enemy now. It wasn't the capturing of his ship that rankled, Jak could see that. It was the humiliation. He had humiliated L'Tarvius, stolen his Crusade and his pride. The old Rogue Trader wasn't lying about his desire to destroy Jak Velasquez. Jak placed his fork very slowly back down on the table.

"Father's dead," he said, so quietly that L'Tarvius had to strain to hear. "He wouldn't want me sitting here blathering away about him like a fool. It's time I stopped thinking about the lessons he tried to teach. It's time to start teaching a few of my own."

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Behold! The ships of Fleet Velasquez surge through an inky void, great fortresses of adamantium traversing the space between stars, their thrusters aglow with roaring flames of royal blue punching back against the darkness, whilst proud armoured prows in red and gold lead the way home.

Look closer and see these mighty floating city-states bedecked in the artificery of war and demonstrations of faith. Void-shielded stained glass catches the light of distant suns and reflects it upon the statuary of saints and martyrs. Great cannons bristle in their housing, warning the foes of the Imperium that no easy targets will be found amongst this fleet.

Look closer still, and see the tribulations of their travails, writ large in blackened scars across their hulls. The doughty crew within carry their own scars of the flesh and of the mind, but like these great ships they persevere regardless, each hewing to their own paths through the darkness, each dependent on one another to do their duty and ensure that the voyage continues.

Such fragile things these void ships are, for a hundred thousand things must go right every day, lest these mighty vessels become nothing but drifting mausoleums, lonely relics in a cold and unforgiving void. In battle, they are such things as could end worlds and win wars, but every crew member knows, deep in their hearts, that they survive at the mercy of fickle gods and wilful spirits.

What man, even a man with a destiny glittering like gold, could rein these forces and turn them to his will? For an Imperial captain must be a soldier and a sailor, a diplomat and a king, a statesman and a rogue. And if he should falter in any one of these duties, mutiny awaits, or worse, the utter destruction of all on board. Is there no greater testament to the wild-eyed optimism of humanity than that they send themselves out amongst the stars in these ships, that they commit to these anabases into the vicious unknown, to plunge into the very depths of Hell and emerge again with smiling countenance? What kind of man counts the darkness as their friend, the very laws of physics as their foe and the galaxy as their ocean?

So, look closer still, for they do say that the devil is in the details. Consider the hull of the greatest of these ships, stitched as it is with maintenance hatches, rivets and airlocks, crawling with shipwrights and tech priests performing their countless duties of repair and restoration, a veritable hive of industry. Consider the lessons that must be learned by a man who would call himself Lord and Captain, who would rule over all of this. Consider the open airlock, the rush of air escaping the ship, the tumbling corpse of Titanius L'Tarvius as it drifts away from the ship, and heed, if you've a mind to, the final lesson: _Don't cross Jak Velasquez._

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 **Epilogue**

The _Stallion of the Empire_ flew in veritable silence compared to the constant noise of her sister ships. Still, even on a crewless ship, there is always life amongst the labyrinth of passageways.

A jackdaw flew down one of these passageways, a bird that had once been one of the _Yolenna Symphony_ 's dark passengers, which had escaped that doomed ship but missed the boats when they were leaving the Stallion. It landed on an exposed pipe and peered down the unlit corridor. Its avian brain had evolved to manage the dangers of void travel and to beware the gloomhaunts and boreworms that could just as easily be predators as prey. But it was hungry and something had drawn the jackdaw to this part of the ship, some scent or sound that it could not recognise nor resist. Still it was wise enough to be wary, as it fluttered to the decking.

It hopped cautiously, claws echoing against the metal. It moved towards the shadows of an access tube, one of the thousands that provided crew with access to the inner workings of the ship. An attempt had been made to seal this one off, but the panel had been torn away. Something was hiding in the shadows of that access tube, and the jackdaw was hungry enough to attempt making a meal of it.

 _Tck-tck-tck._

The Ryleth reared, scuttling out from behind a loose console. The jackdaw squawked, flapping wings desperately as it tried to escape upwards. An arm, bone-thin and filthy, shot out to snatch the bird from the air. The jackdaw had time for one last, desperate, croak before the hand closed tight around it, crushing its brittle bones. The body was shoved, feathers and all, into the mouth of Amaretta Velasquez. She bit into it with ferocious hunger.

The Ryleth approached her, clicking with its own ravenous need. Amaretta hissed and raised her hands defensively to the xenos.

"Mine! Mine!"

Cowed by powers it did not fully comprehend, the creature scuttled away, leaving Amaretta briefly alone with her prize. She crawled out of the access tube, moving in a crab-like scuttle. Even half mad with the deprivations of her time aboard the _Stallion of the Empire_ , she had the presence of mine to spit bones and a few spatterings of blood onto the deck. It was a paltry offering, but in only a few moments she felt a gust of foul air briefly blow through the passageway, and she knew that it had been accepted.

 _They know I am strong_. Stronger than the pitiful Ryleth, blind worshippers of powers they could not comprehend. Stronger even than the Heldrake, an abject monstrosity of metal and warp-sorcery, that had been separated from its masters and drawn like a moth to the flame by the true power on board this ship. That power had slumbered for millennia, waiting for servants it could rely upon.

Amaretta had no idea anymore how long they had been travelling for, but she knew that the power which moved within her was happy with where they were going. It had spoken to her in her dreams, promised her everything that had been denied to her so long. Power. Respect. Revenge. Smiling through blood-stained lips, Amaretta plucked the jackdaw's skull from her mouth and crushed it in her fist. _I pledge my soul to the Lords of Chaos._

 **The End**

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 _Authors Note 16/07/2018: And so, after two long years, the first tale of Jak Velasquez comes to its foreboding conclusion! I'd never tried to write something in a serialised format before this, and when I started I had no idea I would be working on it for so long, or that it would turn out to be as many chapters as it eventually became. Being serialised created enormous challenges in terms of pacing and structure, but the opportunity to read reviews and think about responses as I went was enormously rewarding and definitely shaped the finished product. Thanks so much to everyone's who's taken the time to read and leave a review, I truly appreciate your time._

 _This story was always intended as part of a series, and there are dozens of Jak and Maternin scenes and story ideas, long and short, sitting on my hard drive. You can see one of those, inspired by a reviewer, in the short story Dinner with the Inquisition on my profile. Sadly, I can't justify continuing to dedicate so much time to projects that don't pay right now, and so I have no idea if and when I'll be continuing the adventures of Jak Velasquez and Maternin Shyendi. But for those who are curious, and won't find it too frustrating, keep reading for a sneak peek into what Book 2 might one day look like…_

* * *

 **Rogue Trader Adventures**

 **Book 2**

 _ **Between the Warp and the Void**_

 _Having set out two years earlier as a lowly armsman, Jak Velasquez returns to the Calixis Sector captaining his own fleet and towing one of the greatest pieces of salvage in Imperial history: The_ Stallion of the Empire _, an ancient star-galleon bearing a dark secret. With multiple factions vying to take possession of the vessel, Jak must uncover its mysteries and turn them to his advantage before they destroy him and everything he cares about. Crossing swords and matching wits with heretics, assassins, orks, cultists, the Imperial Inquisition and the fabled Deathwatch Marines, Jak will need all of his luck and cunning if he to survive and obtain the prize that every potential Rogue Trader desires above all else: A Warrant of Trade._

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In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only…

music. Beautiful music.

Tech-Adept Maternin Shyendi did not recognise the song that the Blood-Aethsophonist was playing, but she was entranced by it. Entranced by the delicate tune, by the sight of the slender fingers plucking delicately at the air, and that of the red liquid that pulsed through crystal tubing threaded through the latticework of gold-plated frame. The Blood-Aethsophonist was one with her instrument, grafted into it, her upper body emerging from the instrument's base so that she could not walk but could only be carried. It was her blood that pumped through the sluices and valves, providing the instrument's rich tones, a symbolic representation of the beautiful merging between humanity and machinery desired by the Machine God.

A voice behind Maternin spoke in Gothic, with toneless, mechanical precision.

"She plays well, does she not?"

Maternin turned quickly and bowed her head with perfectly calibrated formality. "Ave Deus Mechanicus, revered Gnostarch," she said. "Yes, she plays exceedingly well."

Gnostarch Prim-Veta was the highest power on the forge world of Daedalus, an Archmagos with holdings on Mars itself. The Gnostarch loomed over Maternin, standing eight feet tall on his four spider-like legs, his body a lumpy array of glistening black armour and segmented limbs, each a masterpiece of craftsmanship designed with great precision for specific purpose. His neck was a gentle curving spine of darkened plas-steel, leading to a jawless head that disconcertingly still held his original deep-blue eyes, sparkling and intelligent. He wore a hooded robe in the tradition of the Cult Mechanicus, bearing the colours of his forge world, emerald and violet.

The Gnostarch gestured with a ten fingered hand that attached to an arm emanating from the centre of his chest-plate. "Come, be seated."

Maternin had been summoned to meet the Gnostarch in his private gardens, at the highest level of his personal tower, rising far above the thick forge world smog. It was very much a Mechanicus garden, the flora placed and trained with exacting precision, so that the colours on the petals of a bed of Septheniums formed patterns replicating the First Algorithmatrix, and the great Ssutub tree branched in a natural display of perfect Hexamathic geometry. A bamboo water fountain slowly tapped out the six sacred answers to Latteir's equation, and Maternin noticed that even the fine blades of grass had been cut to reflect Fibonacci spirals as they caught the sun. She was loathed to step upon them, but she noticed that the Gnostarch displayed no such hesitation. Fine mecha-tendrils emanated from his ankle joints as he walked, repairing the damage of his steps.

Maternin moved as carefully as she good across the grass to sit at a stone bench in a secluded corner of the garden, where they could still watch the Blood-Aethsophonist as they spoke. The Gnostarch crouched on his spider-limbs, squatting so that he was eye level with Maternin.

"Would you be surprised to learn that she has been playing for less than four decades?"

"Revered Gnostarch I would," Maternin forced herself to make eye-contact despite his disconcerting gaze. She had never imagined being summoned to meet the Gnostarch as a child, but little in her life had turned out as expected. "I had estimated that the instrument would be three centuries old at least."

His expressive eyes sparkled. "Such are the marvels that we can work, to convince even the most perceptive minds that new things are old. But the new holds its own values, does it not?"

Maternin nodded shyly, not quite sure what to say. Typically, tech priests conversed in the Lingua Techna, a language of clarity and precision that left little room for subtlety and innuendo. But the Gnostarch was choosing to speak to her in Gothic, and in this setting, a garden! What did it say about the leader of Daedalus that he kept a private reserve of living things, no matter how neatly organised? What did he wish to convey through such a meeting place?

The Gnostarch had always been known as a man with tolerance for the unorthodox. That was why he had allowed Maternin's people, the Genitari, safe haven on his Forge World. And that was why Maternin Shyendi had convinced her captain, Jak Velasquez, to come here when they returned to the Calixis Sector.

Jak had originally intended to go straight to Scintilla, the sector capital, but that carried great risks. Jak Velasquez held possession of one of the most valuable pieces of salvage Calixis had seen in centuries, the _Stallion of the Empire_ , an Imperial treasure galleon that had been lost in the time of the Crusades. Every major power in the sector would be wanting to get their hands upon it. Maternin had convinced Jak that the Gnostarch would offer them a safe haven, somewhere to regroup and make plans for their next move.

When it became apparent that Maternin had no response to his comment, the Gnostarch continued. "I rarely meet face to face anymore. But I understand vocalised communication and attendant eye contact remain traditions of the Genitari, and I greatly wanted to express my appreciation to you for returning the _Vonaznaniya_ to me, Magos Shyendi."

The easy, informal way with which he presented her the promotion she had dreamt of since she was a child shocked and thrilled her, but only a tiny twitch of her mouth gave away her emotion, she clamped down on all the rest and focused on the task at hand.

"I am loathe to correct you, sir, but it was not I who returned it to you. The ship is a gift from my Lord-Captain."

"'Bargaining chip', was the term he used," the Gnostarch said. "I was satisfied to see that he did not obfuscate or dissemble. His words were clear. The _Vonaznaniya_ in return for safe harbour for that… magnificent vessel. But a man of his nature would not have come to the conclusion that he could put faith in my word based purely on reason and probability. He would trust in the testimonial of a confidant. That, I predict, is you. And so, I thank you. Tell me, though, you captain reports that the warp drive is badly damaged and so he can risk no further journeys, yet he requests no assistance with repairs. Why is that?"

This was a test of her loyalties, Maternin could see that plainly. She had known that this course of action would put herself between her Gnostarch and her captain. She chose in this instance not to lie, suspecting that the Gnostarch already knew the answer to his question.

"The warp drives on the _Stallion of the Empire_ are in perfect working condition. Lord-Captain Velasquez holds some concerns regarding the xenos still on board the ship, but they are not the reason that he stalls. He fears that his claim to the ship will be lost once he is in home space."

"His judgement is correct on that count. Many will have their eyes on that ship. Shall I tell you what is to come?" Maternin nodded, looking up at him.

"The Imperial Navy will come first, with their bluster and their guns. You were wise to bring the vessel to me, for my rank and faith will stop them for a time. They are reluctant to contradict the Adeptus Mechanicus when they are so reliant on us for their vessels of war. Next will come the Inquisition, with their rosettes and whispered threats, longing to scour her for secrets. They will be harder to chase away."

"Revered Gnostarch, I had no wish to bring danger to your forge world. If you wish us gone, merely say the word and we will depart."

"No, the Inquisition holds no fear for the Priests of Mars. I will allow them to board the ship, if only because they have neither the inclination not the capacity to take her. And they will keep away the other interested parties, the High Lords and Merchant Princes who will make their own claims, not with any expectation of success, but simply because it makes for a convenient stake in whatever trifling political game they are playing at the time. And then, last of all will come the delegation from Mars."

He said the word without emotion or tone, but in the Noosphere above his head, the concept of Mars glowed golden, a stream of worshipful data pouring from the Gnostarch. Mars was home to the Adeptus Mechanicus, the true heart of the Imperium. "Mars will have the ship, for our claim is the righteous one and blessed by the Omnissiah. Mars will deal with the Inquisition, and the Navy and anyone else who would set their sights on what is ours. But these disputes will take their time. You have done well to bring this ship to me. We will both be richly rewarded for our service to the Machine God. Still," and for the briefest of moments, Maternin could almost swear she heard the Gnostarch sigh, "it brings me deep sadness to imagine that vessel stripped in the drydocks of Mars. Such a ship was built to explore."

A change in the Noosphere indicated that their conversation was completed, and the Gnostarch rose from his squatting position. Maternin Shyendi regarded him warily as he stood. She sensed a great conflict in the Archmagos, one that he could perhaps not even express except through hints and insinuation. But this was a man who had taken in the Genitari, who had created a garden celebrating the mathematics of life itself. He was no dogmatic arch-conservative, Maternin was sure, hadn't he as good as said that the Stallion belonged with a captain who would see her voyaging? This was a priest who knew how to walk the line between humanity and machinery.

She hoped that she could walk the line as well as the Gnostarch seemed to. She was serving two masters here, balancing on a tight-rope over flames. But this was the only path that left any hope of Jak Velasquez retaining the _Stallion of the Empire_ , and so she would walk it fearlessly, for her captain.

"Tell me," the Gnostarch bent down again to look into Maternin's face. "What kind of individual is this Lord-Captain Velasquez?"

"Captain Velazquez is… unorthodox, sir." Although he possessed no mouth, or even vocal folds, the Gnostarch gave a slow, static-filled chuckle.

"I would not expect a Genitari to serve any other type of man. Thank you, Magos Shyendi, you are dismissed."

 **End of Excerpt**


End file.
